


Drawing Dead

by Drewyth



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol, Alfred POV, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Mob, Anal Sex, Angst, Bottom America (Hetalia), Drama, Drug Use, Gun Kink, Gunplay, Hero Worship, Hopeful Ending, If Mob Bosses Can be Considered Heroes, Italian Mafia, Kinky, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Character Death, Oral Sex, Organized Crime, POV America (Hetalia), Partners in Crime, Recreational Drug Use, Russian Mafia, Slow Burn, Some Smut (but not the main focus), Temperature Play, Top Russia (Hetalia), Violence, mafia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2020-06-09 17:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 108,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19480528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drewyth/pseuds/Drewyth
Summary: Alfred needs money. He works in an obscure Russian restaurant, lives in a shitty apartment with his ex, and rent is on the rise. He thinks he’s found the perfect gig—Until his side job draws the attention of some of Manhattan’s less savory characters. He grows close to one, a mob boss referred to as the “Old Bear.” Ivan Braginsky may offer protection, and even a way to make quick cash. Then again, he could also prove the least savory of them all."Drawing Dead is when a player has absolutely no chance to win a hand, no matter what card is dealt next."Human Mafia AU; Rusame focus, with references to past USUK.





	1. Borscht

**Author's Note:**

> Celebrating Alfred's birthday with a new Mafia fic! Let me know what you think; feedback is cherished. You can also find me on [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/drewyth/?hl=en) and [Tumblr](https://drewyth.tumblr.com/)! Finally, I want to thank Kat for helping me outline, Ave for watching heaps of mafia films with me (for research, obviously), and James for inspiring me to write mafia stuff in the first place! Please, enjoy your read.
> 
> *[Russian Translation](https://ficbook.net/readfic/8667252) by @krendel404 on Instagram

Alfred couldn’t pronounce half the words on the menu. The other half was soda.

Six months in, and he still didn’t know how to read the Cyrillic painted on the entrance. If anyone asked, he worked at _that little Russian place, you know, with the sunflowers out front._ Although, his time in the restaurant had taught him some things. First, pelmeni were not the same as pirozhki. Blini were kind of like crepes. A lot of people liked the borscht, even though it looked like a bowl of gore with sour cream on top. And, twice a week, some men in dark suits gathered at the table in the corner to play cards. They always tipped best.

He ducked under a veil of grey smoke. It curled toward the rafters, warping the shapes within like he was stepping into a mirage. Perhaps he was. After all, smoking was allowed in this hazy booth, and the word “no” wasn’t. Alfred felt something like a surge of magic when he approached. These men were bigger than the rules, he’d learned that by now.

“Oi, if it isn’t _il pezzo di merda_ that ratted on us for smoking last month.” One man looked up, a stray curl bouncing against the rim of his trilby. He muttered something under his breath, something Italian, and ground his cigarette into the oaken table. “What is it then, eh? Come to swat our hands and make us share a bottle of milk?”

“He’s only following the rules, Lovino.” A mild-mannered brunette that Alfred had come to know as Toris spoke behind a fan of cards. Carefully, he pressed a stack of bills onto the center of the table. Lovino noticed them, hissed, and threw down his hand.

“I fold.” Pinstriped arms crossed his chest. His eyes flicked to Alfred’s. “What are you still doing here, huh? Fill up our drinks and scram. _Vai._ ”

“My pleasure.” Alfred smiled and set to collecting empty bottles and mugs. They reeked of liquor too expensive for him to have tasted. Some still held dregs that he considered sampling once he got to the back. For now, he balanced each one on his tray, silently noting who had what. Lovino snorted.

“ _Leccaculo._ ”

“Ah! Excuse me!” A second Italian waved him down. Alfred once believed he and Lovino were twins. Matthew told him that was insensitive. But now, Alfred was convinced they were at least brothers. The man, Feliciano, smiled. “Would you mind bringing out a bowl of pasta when you come back? All this fun we’re having is making me _very_ hungry.”

Lovino leaned over Feliciano’s shoulder. His eyes widened before he forced his expression back to neutrality. He tapped the other man’s wallet on the table, reminding him to place his bet. “They don’t serve pasta here, _cretino_. Unless you want that godawful stroganoff.”

“Oh…” Feliciano frowned. He perked up again when he noticed the growing cash pool. “Toris, you should tell the Old Bear to add pasta to the menu. I spend so much time in here with _l_ _a famiglia,_ it would really help us feel welcomed!”

Toris smiled gently and folded his own hand. “I will tell him.”

“Damn.” Lovino’s forehead dropped into his palm. He shook his head as others started laying down their cards. “Ah… Where is the old bastard anyway? I swear he hasn’t been to a game night since his flag still had the sickle.”

“He’s visiting home.” Toris cradled an empty mug between his palms and nodded to Alfred when he retrieved it from him. “Shouldn’t be gone much longer. I hope I haven’t disappointed you too much, in the meantime.”

“Eh? Oh. No, no…” Lovino waved him off. His attention shifted back to Alfred. “The only thing disappointing me right now is the _lull_ in _service_ here. Well? Get on with it! _Sbrigati!_ Hurry up!”

“Right away, sir.” Alfred maintained his smile until he stepped out of the fog. A pungent aroma clung to his all-black uniform, replacing his feeling of enchantment. His shoulders shook on a snicker. He knew he’d have to wait until the end of the night to fill his pockets, but he already felt richer. It put an extra spring in his step, carrying him all the way to the bar.

“Yo, Eduard!” Alfred’s tray clattered against the bar top. “You mind helping me refill these drinks?”

The blonde startled, eyes wide behind his glasses. Then, as he registered who stood before him, his muscles relaxed. His smile reminded Alfred how young he looked. Was he even old enough to be running the bar? Alfred returned the gesture either way.

“Hiya.” He indicated his tray of barren glasses. “Help me out?”

“Of course. Forgive my spacing out just then.”

“Hey, I’m not worried about it.” Alfred swung his legs up over the bar. “Just wanna show that black tie event over there some quality service. Y’know.”

Alfred had no sooner pulled a half-full bottle of Rosé from the cooler than he was interrupted by a gasp.

“Oh! No, no. We don’t serve that run-of-the-mill slop to our _special_ guests.” Eduard laughed a nervous laugh before cutting himself off. “Erm, no. Here.” He ducked out of sight. There was a jingling of keys, and the snap of a lock, before he remerged with a sleek, dark bottle. “Bring over this Masseto. And—This is important—let them open it themselves.”

“Oh.” Alfred turned the bottle awkwardly in his hands. “Cool. ‘Cause I, uh, totally lost my corkscrew. Think they’ll have their own?”

Eduard stared at him a moment. He nodded slowly. Then, he leaned in and said, “You just better hope you don’t piss them off, so they use it for its intended purpose.”

Alfred laughed, because that seemed like what he was supposed to do. It petered off into silence. “Yeah, man. Yeah… But—What?”

The younger blonde blinked. “Have you never served them before?”

“Not by myself, no,” Alfred confessed. “Usually, someone’s hovering over my shoulder. But they always take the larger cut of the tips, so I’m doing it myself this time. Why?”

Eduard shook his head. With a whispered, “Good luck, friend,” he returned to his book.

Alfred shook off a vague feeling of uncertainty, replaced it with a smile. “Sure! Have fun zoning out, my dude.”

He tucked the wine— _Mah-say-toe_ —into his arm and headed back toward the corner booth. Some of his other customers tried to flag him down along the way. They wanted refills on water or more servings of borscht. Then, they saw who he was tending to, and politely turned away. Alfred didn’t understand it, but he was grateful to have only one table to focus on. He pushed through the curtain of smoke and into a roar of applause.

“Please, gentlemen. Please. It’s all in a day’s work.” Alfred bowed his head jokingly, a hand pressed over his heart. His eyes searched the haze of faces, backlit by a halo of orange light. “I’m just your local hero, delivering the finest beverages to my lovely guests. It’s totally no big deal.”

“We’re not clapping for you, _culo_.” Lovino’s teeth bared on a sneer. He slapped his brother on the back, drawing Alfred’s attention to the heap of money sitting in front of them. “Game turned around. We’re rich! _Siamo ricchi!_ ”

“Bad luck is with us tonight,” Toris murmured against the crucifix in his hand. His green eyes turned distant. “Not a good thing for the boss to come home to.”

“Oi, if the old bastard’s still got his touch, he’ll double these winnings in a night.” Lovino cut a backhand through the air. “Feliciano, _mio fratello_ , let’s get out of here while God’s still smiling on us, eh?”

Alfred shuffled the wine to his other hand. “Before you go, can I interest you in some Masseto?” He pronounced the word slowly, sampling each syllable. Even the name tasted expensive.

A fierce smile turned on him. “You want a cut of this, pig? Eh, piggy?”

Lovino strode toward him. Some of the others cringed back to allow him passage. A few men sighed and counted their money. Alfred stood up taller, even as something flipped in his gut. Without meaning to, he barred the wine bottle across his chest like a shield. Lovino wrenched it away. A crumpled wad of bills appeared in its place.

“ _That_ ,” Lovino pinned the cash to his sternum, “is for the wine. You want a tip? You learn how to _do your fucking job_ , eh?”

“Ah, Lovino…” Feliciano’s voice drowned beneath his brother’s slurred tirade.

“Maybe you start shining shoes.” Lovino swayed on his feet and Alfred understood: He was drunk. Suddenly, a drinking and sobbing Arthur didn’t seem so bad. “Hell, I’d tip you better if you _licked_ my loafers. Put that pretty American mouth to good use.”

“That’s enough, I think.” Toris raised his head, his voice soft, but firm. Lovino snickered and lifted his own gaze. There was a long stretch of tension as each man stared down the other. Warm light painted Toris’ hair down to the shoulders of his grey vest. Lovino wore a crown of golden luminescence, and a slowly withering scowl. Feliciano snagged his brother’s sleeve, so he was the first to look away.

“Lovino, we made a lot of money tonight. This is good! I say we take our earnings and buy ourselves some good food, and maybe some pretty women.” Feliciano smiled and tugged more urgently. “Lovino… Come on, Lovino. All the shops are closing, and I still haven’t eaten, I don’t want to go to bed hungry—”

“Alright, enough.” Lovino snatched back his hand, creasing his sleeve into place. “It was a good game tonight. We’ll have to do it again when the Old Bear gets back from holiday.”

“We will.” Toris’ smile was placid, didn’t reach his eyes, but he maintained it well enough. “Raivis will show you out.”

Alfred stepped to the side, watching as half a dozen men rose onto glossy black shoes. The other half were people Alfred recognized as restaurant staff; they could translate Cyrillic even when it was written in cursive and pronounce every menu item perfectly. The latter bunch remained seated, all except Toris, who took Alfred’s hand.

“It isn’t much.” Toris’ smile thinned, apologetic, as he tucked a few crisp bills into his palm. “We should have walked away with a profit tonight, but…so should you. You’ve worked hard since your very first day here. That hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

“Oh. Hey, thanks.” Alfred smiled absently and forced himself not to start counting his earnings on the spot. His fingers twitched. Just then, a bell rang over the front exit. He turned his attention there instead.

“ _Buona notte!_ Goodnight, everyone!” Feliciano lingered in the doorway, framed by potted sunflowers and frosted glass windows. The dark beyond the panes matched the dark of his suspenders. Lovino snapped one as he shoved past. Feliciano laughed and trailed after him. When the door swung shut, the restaurant felt bigger, like an oppressive presence had opened the space to its smaller patrons. Everyone breathed a little easier.

“So… What was all that about?” Alfred nudged Toris with an elbow and laughed. Laughter also came easier. “That Lovino guy’s sort of a prick, ain’t he?”

Toris flaked at one of his fingernails. He appeared distracted, until Alfred’s voice stopped, and he realized it was his turn to respond. His smile was an instinctive quirk of the lips. “We all have our moments. And, you know the saying, don’t you? ‘When the cat’s away, the mice will play.’”

Alfred kept smiling.

Toris clarified, “It’s easier to be a ‘prick,’ as you put it, when no one’s around to supervise. They don’t always act so brash.”

“Huh.” Alfred followed Toris’ gaze to the empty doorway. “Well, what about you? You’ve been doing a good job supervising shit around here Don’t they respect you as head ‘cat’ or whatever? No offense.”

Toris gave a courteous chuckle. “I suppose I should have said, when the _bear_ is away, the mice will play.”

_That name again._ Alfred’s expression brightened. “Yeah, by the way, who’s everyone talking about when—”

“Why don’t you get home early tonight, Alfred?” Another bundle of dollars appeared between Toris’ fingers. Alfred accepted them, slowly. A sheepish smile spread across his face.

“Is this your polite way of shutting me up?” he asked.

Toris returned the smile. Then he turned, and Alfred knew the conversation was done.

Alfred ambled to the rear of the shop. A whistled tune died on his lips. The other employees, and many of the diners, seemed to have a problem with whistling indoors. Whether it was a pet peeve, a superstition, or both, Alfred had been reprimanded enough times for him to know better. He bit his tongue.

When he finally joined the bustle and scents of the kitchen, Alfred stopped to count his cash. There were only a few bills. He shuffled through them with little interest before he realized—They were a few _big_ bills. He fumbled with the money as he recounted it, and again.

“Wait… One hundred. One-fifty. Two hundred. Three, four…” He licked his lips as they worked soundlessly over numbers he never expected to hold. His heart skipped a beat when he confirmed the total for the fourth time.

There was almost a thousand dollars in his hands.

“Holy shit…” Alfred’s fingers shook around the cash. He hardly expected to make this much in two weeks, let alone in two _hours_. He crushed the money to his chest. Remembered to breathe. A smile shivered over his lips. Dinner was on _him_ tonight. He just had one more thing to do before then.

“Yo, Eduard!” Alfred plucked a fifty from his stash and tossed in on the bar. “I’m here to pay for that wine. I’m heading out for the night, so I figure I can just give it to you.”

“Pay for the wine…” Eduard finished a line in his book before glancing up. His eyes widened on the fifty-dollar bill. “Erm, you mean the Masseto? Is that right?”

“Yeah, yeah. The _Mah-say-toe,_ ” Alfred drawled. “I don’t know how much it is, but I figure that’ll cover the price of the bottle, and then you can keep the rest. A little somethin’ extra, from me to you.”

He winked. Eduard flinched.

“Er, Alfred, my friend…” A hitched, nervous laugh as Eduard removed his glasses, wiping them down on the hem of his shirt. “I really don’t know how to tell you this…”

“What’s the matter, dude?” Alfred frowned, swiping instinctively at his mouth. “I got something in my teeth?”

Eduard took a breath, rubbed harder at a particularly stubborn fleck of dirt on his spectacles, and said, “The Masseto wine… The one we keep stocked for our special guests… It costs eight-hundred-and-fifty-six dollars.”

Alfred’s heart seized. “That’s… What the hell? Eight-hundred-and…” Laughter burst on his lips. “Dude, you’re messing with me. That’s hilarious! No drink could ever cost—” He stopped when he saw the sympathetic pallor in Eduard’s gaze. Eight-hundred-and-fifty-six dollars. All at once, he deflated.

“Well. Hey. That’s okay. I don’t need this much money for one night anyway. I don’t know what I was thinking.” Alfred laughed weakly. He tossed the rest of the cash on the counter and jammed his thumbs in his pockets, hoping to soothe his itchy palms. “Think you could count the rest out for me? I’ve looked it over so many times, I feel like I forgot my numbers.”

“Sure. Of course.” Eduard gave him another lingering look. He opened his mouth to say something else, but he hesitated, so Alfred spoke instead.

“It’s really not a big deal. I’m still walking away with, like, one-fifty, if I include my other tables. That’s how much I usually expect to make on a weekend.” Although, he had seen other servers leave with five hundred on ‘game nights.’ His smile cracked wider. “It all works out.”

“I’m glad.” Eduard nodded, though he didn’t seem convinced. He finished thumbing through six single dollar bills, and Alfred laughed again.

“Bastard really gave me exact change for that wine. God forbid I get the leftover four dollars for tip. Whatever.” He accepted the remaining cash with a “thanks,” and shoved a loose bill into the tip jar. Eduard’s brows shot up.

“Oh, Alfred, you really don’t need to—”

“I was gonna tip you anyway.” Alfred waved the protest away. “You’re always saving my ass out here, man. It’s the least I can do.”

He paused and looked out over the restaurant. Business was winding down. Tables were being cleared. The smoke had all but faded from the corner of the room. Finally, Alfred pushed off the bar and headed for the exit.

“I’ll see you Monday, Ed!” He turned to walk backwards as he said, “Hell, I might even see you tomorrow, depending on Arthur’s mood when I get home. Might need a drink!”

“I’ll keep a bottle of Masseto handy.” Eduard raised his hand in half a wave, and his lips in half a smile. “Have a good night, Alfred.”

Alfred generally tried to follow that advice. _Have a good night._ By the time he reached his second bus stop, though, he didn’t know if he was having a good night, or simply a long one. The bus squealed to a halt at its final destination. Alfred filtered into the familiar swarm of Manhattan foot traffic. An early spring chill clawed at his skin and he cursed himself for forgetting his coat. _Again_. His breath misted into white-grey puffs. He blew out a steady stream and pretended it was cigar smoke.

His apartment building boasted a mosaic of light and dark windows. Every so often, a silhouette appeared in one of those boxes, peering out over crowded city streets. Alfred tipped his head back to search for some. The cold crept under his collar, caressed his freckled cheeks. He succumbed to its touch, like that of an eager lover. There was something romantic about the nightlife in New York, even—And especially—when one experienced it alone.

“Wait…” Alfred jerked to attention. He fumbled into his pockets, groped the seams of his clothes. A flurry of laughter fogged before him. _Of course._ He’d forgotten his keys. “Well, shit.”

His eyes fell on the fire escape.

That wrought iron surface curled, like a black snake, over mismatched brick. His gaze followed it to the tenth story. The window there was one of the dark ones. Alfred’s chest swelled on a cold inhale. It wouldn’t be the first time, he thought, and started up the stairs.

His steps rang hollow against the metal runway. The higher he climbed, the less audible his footfalls became, muted by the high whistle of wind. Alfred turned his face toward the breeze. Cool tendrils of air carded through his hair, and he invited them. It was cold this close to heaven, but it was free.

On the tenth landing, Alfred set to jimmying a busted window latch. It had been broken since before he’d moved in, and it was his responsibility to have it fixed. But why would he, when it made such a convenient entrance? His heart skipped as the lock _popped_ out of place. He paused, waiting in the dark for someone to approach. No one did.

A sigh of relief followed him into the window frame. He folded long legs beneath him, ducked his head, and perched upon a concrete sill. Merry laughter drew his attention below. He chased the sound with his eyes, to a group of faceless figures strolling in the dark. They looked so _small_ from his vantage. So did the cars, and the shops, and the lights. Everything, tiny. Everything but him. He wondered if this was how the men in dark suits felt: Bigger than the world around them, always looking down on their surroundings.

A light came on.

“Whoa—” Alfred stumbled, narrowly catching himself on the window frame. His eyes watered as they adjusted to the glare of artificial light. One of the silhouettes from earlier stepped into view. It had a rigid stance, a mess of yellow hair, and a magnificent scowl.

“Why, in the queen’s name, are you sneaking into our apartment?” Arthur Kirkland crossed his arms over a pale green sweater. He looked ready for bed, or ready to fight. Alfred shifted his weight.

“I’m not sneaking.”

Arthur stared. He cut a hand toward Alfred’s body, still half tangled in the open window. One of Alfred’s feet slipped out of place. He kneed himself, hard, in the chin. With a grunt, he adjusted his balance and said, “I know what it looks like.”

“Oh, spare me.” Arthur rolled his eyes and spun away on slippered heels. Alfred clambered after him.

“I forgot my key.” He tripped, took a face full of carpet, then collected his glasses and followed along. “You said you’d get me a lanyard. You never did.”

“I advised _you_ to get a lanyard,” Arthur corrected. “And you could call, you know. Have someone let you in, so you don’t look like a burglar in the middle of the night.” Arthur gave him a sharp onceover. “If you did that, perhaps you’d actually come home with milk and eggs, as so many of my texts requested.”

Alfred threw up his hands. “My phone died. What do you want from me?”

Arthur scoffed. He continued to the living room. Alfred followed, past empty picture frames and trophies he couldn’t remember the significance of. The hallway closed tight around them. Alfred thought the walls were too white, too sterile for a home. Arthur called the color _eggshell_ and insisted it stayed. Whatever the name, it made Alfred feel confined, like a prisoner in some asylum. Arthur’s authoritarian tone didn’t help.

“Well, if you’d charge your phone overnight like I’m always bloody telling you…”

“Yet you always bitch at me about electricity costs when I leave stuff plugged in.” Tension built in the base of Alfred’s neck. He kneaded it with a palm. “You’ve really been waiting all day to yell at me, haven’t you?”

Arthur stopped midstride. Calmly, he said, “I’m not yelling.”

“You want to.”

An ironic smile twitched the corner of Arthur’s mouth. He spoke slowly, clearly. “Yes… I abstain from a lot of things I want to do. That’s the difference between you and I. _Impulse control_ , Alfred.” In one swift motion, he snatched a tattered package off the coffee table. “What is this?”

Alfred’s eyes widened, then narrowed with recognition. “Dude, are you opening my _mail_ now?”

“So, it is yours.” Arthur sighed, tossing the package down between them. “Here I’d hoped the mail carrier had delivered to the wrong flat, so I could still maintain an _ounce_ of faith in you.”

“It’s just a hat,” Alfred snapped. He clutched the bundle against his chest. Through the gaps in manila packaging, he spotted a wide, upturned rim and pinstripes. “It’s not that serious.”

“We are going _hungry_ here, Alfred!” Arthur stepped around the coffee table, indicating the hat with two fingers. “And this? Oh, this is quality material here. I’d estimate, what is it, forty dollars? Fifty? Genuine felt and wool… A gentleman’s accessory, yes?”

Arthur waited for an answer, so Alfred provided one. “Yes?”

“ _No_.” Arthur raked both hands through his hair. “You know the landlord’s been up our arse these past few months. Your brother and I have been struggling to make ends meet, and now what do you do, instead of buying _groceries?_ ”

Alfred laughed and threw down the parcel. “Oh, right, and we’re just not gonna talk about the cost of _your_ ‘recreational activities.’”

Arthur’s finger jammed into Alfred’s chest. “I do that to relax after a long day of study and tolerating your bullshit. If you take issue with it, _please_ tell me directly instead of trying to use it against me whenever we disagree.”

“I’m just saying,” Alfred stepped forward and spread his hands in front of him. “You act like you’re the only one here whose hobbies are justified. I wanna have a good time too, you know.”

“As though you don’t take the utmost pleasure in _tormenting_ me.”

“Tormenting _you?_ ” Another bark of laughter. “God, that’s rich. If anything, you’re the one always riding my ass.”

“Not anymore. Or haven’t you noticed?”

“Hey, guys?” Matthew Williams Jones stood in the archway leading to the dining room. He held a plate, piled high with _something_. “I know you’re busy venting pent-up frustrations, but I made some poutine. If you’re hungry.”

Arthur cut a hand between them. “Not now, Matthew.”

“Mattie, my man!” Alfred turned out of Arthur’s line of fire. He strode up to his twin, slugged him in the arm, and grabbed a handful of fries. “Thanks for your weird Canadian food, bro-ha. You saw Niagara Falls, like, once? And now you’re a culinary expert! How awesome is that?”

“I really can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic.”

“Matthew,” Arthur drawled. He glanced at Alfred in time for him to stuff his mouth full and rolled his eyes. “While I appreciate your contribution to the household, Alfred and I were in the middle of a conversation.”

“A lecture,” Alfred amended through a mouthful of gravy.

“Sorry. I get that.” Matthew gave a small smile. “And I was thinking, if it makes things easier, I’d be willing to trade rooms if one of you wanted the couch instead—”

“No.” They spoke at the same time, earning each a sharp look from the other. Arthur added, “Absolutely not.” Alfred piled more food onto his tongue.

“Just thought I’d offer.” Matthew redistributed a couple cheese curds with his fingers before examining his meal. “It must be hard for you two, still sharing a bedroom when things are clearly so contentious. And, I mean, I don’t particularly want to sleep on a pull-out couch forever, so…”

Arthur started to say something. That’s when Alfred’s mind began to wander. He leaned on an overstuffed recliner and hummed around his food. His eyes toured familiar pieces of decor, all meticulously vacuumed, dusted, and shined. Every so often, Arthur rearranged the furniture in a fit of obsessive compulsion. Alfred rarely noticed—Until recently, when redecorating became Arthur’s preferred form of revenge. The empty space on the entertainment center gave him pause.

“I understand what you’re saying, Matthew. I do. But regardless of how much _French_ is spoken there, Canada is still _heavily_ influenced by British culture. This is not a topic I’ll—”

“Dude, why do you keep moving Sam behind this vase?” Alfred pushed aside the ceramic pot in favor of a hidden statuette. A bald eagle, with its wings spread in the likeness of an American flag, was perched atop a wooden plaque that read _Happy Independence Day from D.C._ Alfred repositioned it while Arthur huffed.

“That bird is so ugly.”

“You used to tell me my eagle collection was cute.” Alfred plopped onto the sofa, crossing one leg over the other.

“And you used to tell me you loved me.” Arthur sat on the edge of the recliner and crossed his ankles. “How time changes us.”

“Wow, so, now’s a good time to stop, maybe.” Matthew sat in between them, ever the peacekeeper. Arthur smoothed a wrinkle out of his shirt. Alfred flashed a grin.

“Sure thing, Matt. I’m sorry for acting so petty. It was pretty immature, huh?” Alfred laid a hand over his heart and added, “I can’t speak for Huffy McSass over there.”

Arthur’s lip curled, but he said no more.

“Well, I think I understand why Arthur might be a little more stressed than usual.” Matthew glanced uncertainly at Arthur, who gave him half a nod. Matt took a breath and continued. “Al, you’ve kind of been…blowing your money—”

“Oh my god,” Alfred laughed. Caged energy drove him off the couch and onto his feet. He paced around the coffee table before speaking again. “Look, if this is about that stupid hat, I can return it. It’s really not—”

“And the archaeology kit,” Matthew said.

“Which I’m totally gonna make back all the money for once I hit up those goldmines in Cali.”

“And the model cars?”

“Are going to be worth a _fortune_ in a few years! They’re collectibles.”

Matthew’s shoulders slumped. “Same with the comics, I assume.”

“Yeah.” Alfred’s smile turned crooked. “What…is the problem with you guys? It’s like you’re making me out to be some kind of villain here. I’m just trying to come up with as many different ways of making money as I can. I know we need it. I want to help.”

“Why don’t we get straight to it.” Arthur passed his hands over his face before dropping them into his lap. He straightened up and cut Alfred a burning gaze. “Rent’s gone up. You know that. I didn’t mind picking up your slack while you adjusted to your new job. That was reasonable. But we’ve been doing this for half a year, and with the water bill where it’s been lately, I simply cannot—”

“Don’t blame me for the water bill, dude.” Alfred crossed his arms, protection against the accusations laid before him. “You know five minutes under the shower is all I need.”

Arthur pursed his lips. He appeared to evaluate the diplomacy of a few different responses before he settled on, “That’s jolly good. The fact of the matter is, those five minutes are costing us even more these days. With all the loans I’ve already taken out—”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Alfred’s face crumpled in confusion. “‘Costing us even more these days.’ What are you saying? Do you mean they raised utility prices _again?_ ”

Arthur’s silence was all the answer Alfred needed. He spat a curse, which broke into a spell of laughter.

“You’re kidding! You’re fucking… What?” He laughed louder and snatched some fries off Matthew’s fork to muffle the sound. “Mmm. Y’know, we weren’t even supposed to be _paying_ utilities when we first got this place? Then, they were all, ‘It’s a fixed price every month, don’t worry! You can use as much as you want, we just want a little somethin’ for it.’ Which was like, yeah okay. But now? Dude, I can barely afford to wipe my _ass_ around here.”

“You said it all.” Arthur dropped his forehead into his palm, squeezed the bridge of his nose. “We’ve considered moving.”

“What?” Alfred snapped around to face Arthur. “No. No way. Your school is here. You’re basically a doctor already. We can’t… No. No. This is the cheapest place we can get this close to your campus. Right? We’ve checked. So, we’re gonna make this work.”

Arthur looked taken aback. He blinked down at his hands, which fidgeted restlessly over crinkles in his pants. “Well. Don’t inconvenience yourself for my sake.”

“You inconvenience me for your sake, more than anything,” Alfred said, but he winked when he did, and this time, Arthur didn’t argue. His eyes dropped once more.

“Um, I don’t mean to be skeptical, but how are we going to ‘make this work,’ exactly?” Matthew chewed half a fry before continuing. “I admire your optimism, Alfred, but it hasn’t really helped us these past few months. At this rate, I’ll have to go full-time at work instead of signing up for hockey, and—”

“No, no. You, join your hockey team. You’re gonna kick major ass, my dude, so don’t let anything hold you back from that. And you,” he turned to Arthur, who took a moment to meet his gaze. “Keep focusing on your studies, okay? And I’m gonna pay you back for every time you’ve had to cover my share of rent. Scout’s honor. As for this hat?” He crossed over to the coffee table and spun the package in his hands. “Well, I’m gonna keep it. But no more crazy spending after this. Not until everything else is sorted. Alright? Both of you have my word.”

Arthur and Matthew watched him from their seats. Matthew’s expression was the first to falter. He averted his gaze and said, “Al…”

Alfred knew he wanted to follow it with a hundred other things. _Al, we’ve heard this before. Al, promises don’t keep the electricity on. Al, you haven’t been much of a hero lately; not at all._ Looking at Matthew now, it was like Alfred’s own reflection doubted him. His smile wavered.

“I believe him.”

Arthur’s voice caught Alfred off guard. His brow furrowed and he couldn’t stop himself from saying, “You do?”

Arthur stood. When he met Alfred’s eyes again, Alfred noticed how _tired_ he looked. Deep bruises circled forest green eyes, and insomnia etched faint lines into Arthur’s forehead, around his mouth. He shook his head and sighed. “You’ve really got to help me help you here.”

Alfred’s grin broadened. “I mean, _of course_ you believe me. I’m right! And I totally won’t let you guys down. You’ll see. I’m working on, like, three different plans right now. I’ve got a _lot_ of coals in the fire.”

“Irons in the fire,” Arthur said.

Matthew’s smile was tentative. “If Arthur’s backing you up, I won’t be the only naysayer. You just have to promise this won’t turn into another—”

“I _promise_. I totally do. And I know, I know words only mean so much, so I’ll _show_ you.” Alfred scooped up one last fistful of poutine before Matthew had the chance to dig into it. He crammed the fries into his mouth, tugged off his apron, and wiped his hands on the crumpled fabric. “First things first, I think Arthur should get with the times, sell his lame old records, and start streaming music like a normal person.”

“Now, wait just a moment,” Arthur bolted to his feet. “Insulting me is one thing, but it is _blasphemy_ to speak ill of Freddie, Elton, and Ozzy.”

Alfred tossed his head back on a cackle. Matthew shared a chuckle of his own and said, “I’m glad some things don’t change.” He looked between the two of them fondly. Alfred returned his smile.

“Shit, well, I don’t know about y’all, but I am _so_ ready to hit the hay.” Alfred stretched his arms behind his head and nodded to the hall. “Gotta be well-rested if I wanna be on top of my hustle.”

“Yes, I think I’ll join you.” Arthur started to lead the way before he realized what he’d said. He hesitated, so Alfred flashed a smile drenched in oblivion.

“For sure, man, you’re already in your PJs. Let’s get to sleep.” He leaned against the wall with a hand on his hip and his apron strewn over his shoulder. “Yo, Matt, you gonna need any help pulling your bed out?”

Matthew’s eyes widened behind round glasses. “Actually, Al, that’d be really nice of you.”

“I’m kidding, bro, you do this every night.” Alfred pushed off the wall and headed for his bedroom. “You got it. I believe in you!”

He caught a murmured “thanks” and laughed to himself. Matthew might not be able to tell when Alfred was being sarcastic, but Alfred operated under the assumption that Matthew was _always_ sarcastic. That way, he was right more often than he was wrong.

Alfred also operated under the assumption that Arthur didn’t know how to apologize. That way, he couldn’t be too disappointed when he was right. But it also meant Alfred didn’t know how to respond when Arthur _did_ approach him.

“Alfred, I’d like to have a word with you.”

Alfred took a breath to prepare himself. His smile melted into place before he turned. “Sure, dude. What’s up?”

“I wanted to… Well. I felt that I should…apologize.” The words sounded clunky, coming from Arthur. It was as though he was learning a new language and the phonetics were still foreign to him, except he never had this much trouble with French or Russian. “I admit I’ve been…harsh on you lately. Not all of it is unwarranted, but. Ah, well, I could be more tactful, at the very least.”

Alfred raised his brows. They both stood there, crammed in the doorway of their shared bedroom. Arthur focused on straightening a picture frame. Just a few yards away, Matthew wrestled with a squeaky pull-out couch. It was kind of a poetic ambience, as far as Alfred was concerned. His smile tightened when he nudged Arthur’s arm.

“Awe, c’mon. You think I’m upset about that?” Alfred laughed. “I know how things are between us. It’s not exactly new.”

“Between us. Yes.” Arthur cleared his throat. His attention drifted away from the wall, and at first, Alfred thought he was going to look at him. Instead, his eyes settled over Alfred’s shoulder. “You know, Al, you make fun of my records a lot, but I remember how much you used to enjoy them. I just dug some old ones out of the closet, if you…wanted to have a listen.”

Alfred followed his gaze. A twin bed occupied the corner. Crisp white sheets peeked out beneath a burgundy comforter. Two pillows lay neatly pressed across the top. And, at the foot of the bed, Alfred recognized a throw pillow boasting the insignia of the Union Jack. It was a gag gift from the previous Christmas. For a while, Arthur kept it hidden under his bed. Now…

“Actually, Art, I’m real exhausted from work.” Alfred ducked out of Arthur’s range and into the bedroom. A floral sheet hung from the ceiling, dividing the space in two. Alfred pushed it aside en route to his own bed. “Another time, yeah?”

“Right.” Arthur’s voice turned hollow. Alfred disappeared behind the curtain before he could say any more. He stood still, finally allowing himself to frown, and listened to the slow creak of Arthur’s footsteps on the other side.

At last, Alfred collapsed into bed. It was unmade, scattered with crumbs. He remembered a time, not long ago, when his mattress had been pushed up alongside Arthur’s. They would fall asleep holding one another, and clothes were always optional. Now, Alfred didn’t even bother changing out of his work attire. He sprawled on his back as an invasive thought crept into his head: Who had been the first one to stop saying “I love you?”

Alfred sighed. He didn’t wonder all that hard, not really. It was him who’d stopped saying it first. It was usually him.

A pungent stench wafted in from Arthur’s half of the room. The smoke wasn’t quite the same as the kind he saw in the restaurant, but if he closed his eyes, it didn’t feel too different. Absently, he reached into his apron and withdrew a small bundle of cash. His thumb ran along rumpled edges as he wondered where it had been before it came to him, what its journey had looked like. More than that, he wanted to know how to get _more._

Then, surrounded by the musky scent of marijuana, an idea sparked. The money crumpled in Alfred’s hand as a slow smile passed his lips. It was a fairly lucrative business he had in mind. After all, there was always a demand for his product of choice. As for his supply, well, it was right _here_. All he had to do was sort out the details.

He fell asleep in his uniform and dreamed of the day he’d get to wear another kind of black suit.


	2. Aces

He made his first sale two weeks ago. Word spread, after that.

Alfred almost felt bad, using such a charming diner as the site of his business. Bursts of yellow flora ornamented every window, always bundled in odd numbers. Five matryoshka dolls smiled at him from the front desk, a little family of painted perfection. On the walls, nature scenes hung in hand carved frames. People came here with their sweethearts, their children. The whole place looked innocent and unassuming; if Alfred hadn’t seen the dark-suited men that frequented the corner booth, he might have believed it really was.

Besides, he’d made enough to pay for utilities, so he couldn’t feel too guilty.

“Alrighty, I’m just gonna leave the bill with you here.” Alfred set the little black folder at the edge of his last table. “There’s no rush, okay? Just go ahead and pay whenever you’re ready.”

His smile lingered on the man with the red eyes. He had a feeling about this one, and his intuition hadn’t failed him _too_ many times before. Then, the girl across from him pulled out her purse, and Alfred turned to leave.

“Hey, before you bail on us—”

Alfred stopped. His smile snapped back into place as he pivoted. “Yes, sir?”

The man rattled the ice in his otherwise empty cup and said, “Get me some diet Pepsi to go, will ya?”

Alfred’s heart leapt. He swallowed his delight, so his smile didn’t crack any wider. Besides, there was still a chance this request didn’t mean what he thought it meant. This guy could genuinely want a refill on soda, and nothing more. To make sure, Alfred said, “Sorry, dude, we only have Coke products. Will the diet Cola be alright?”

“Damn, see…” Crimson eyes locked on Alfred’s beneath a fringe of silver hair. “I _really_ wanted the Pepsi.”

And there was the confirmation.

“Are you deaf?” The girl’s head shot up. Her brows furrowed over sharp green eyes. “He _just_ said they don’t have Pepsi products here.”

“Shut your _mouth,_ Héderváry. Seriously.” The man leaned toward Alfred and dropped his voice, confidentially. “Chicks, right? Always trying to ruin shit for us.”

Alfred grinned. “I’ll be right back with your drink.”

No one gave him a second glance when he stepped into the kitchens. And why would they? He behaved the same as he always did, greeting other workers and cracking jokes with chefs that didn’t speak English and didn’t laugh. Perhaps he was a bit giddier than usual. After all, people he didn’t even know were picking up on his code: If a customer asked for diet Pepsi, twice, when they knew the restaurant didn’t carry it, Alfred knew what they were _really_ looking to buy.

He snagged a plastic cup from the dispenser and filled it with water. Then, he moved aside and looked over his shoulder. One person made eye contact. Alfred waved. They swiftly glanced away before he tried to talk to them. Alfred smiled to himself and went back to work.

While one hand wrestled with the cup’s lid, the other snuck into his shirt. He fished out a small baggy, curled his last three fingers around it. Then, he adjusted the lid with both hands, dropped the bag inside the cup, and secured the top. And no sir, he certainly did _not_ just hide an eighth of Arthur’s shitty weed in a to-go cup, thank you very much.

“Pardon me.” He dodged another server and started out onto the floor. A voice stopped him.

“Oh! Alfred. Like, thank god. Hey, you can totally help me with something, can’t you?”

Alfred hesitated, then turned to look at his coworker. His short ponytail had come loose during the day, and various liquids stained the front of his uniform. He struggled under his food tray with both hands, and gasped when the dishes on top tilted dangerously to one side. Alfred caught the other end and offered half a smile.

“Hey Feliks. I’m actually just taking care of my last table for the night, but uh…” The kitchen doors swung open behind another server. Through them, Alfred saw his customer, the snowy-haired figure standing near his table like he was eager to go. Then the doors shut, and a groan sounded beside him. He snapped back to attention and forced his smile wider. “But yeah, hey, no. Don’t look so sad. I can totally help you! What’s up?”

Another groan, this time full of relief. “Okay, okay, I have just been having the _craziest_ day. Like, oh my god, you wouldn’t believe it.”

“Try me,” Alfred joked. He was distracted by the door opening again. The red-eyed diner was looking around now, searching for him, Alfred was sure. He shuffled the cup to his other hand.

“Right, you think you can handle anything. Totally forgot that about you. Okay, tough guy. So, it all started last week, when the new schedule came out. Well, the new schedule was _bullshit_ , I wasn’t getting _any_ hours, so I started trying to pick up shifts, right?”

“Uh huh.” Alfred shifted his weight. His eyes flicked to the clock.

“Right, so like, _no one_ was giving me any shifts. They were all acting like they needed the money _so_ much more than I do, because it’s not like I’m working to pay my bills too or anything. Anyway, I called up Toris and I was like, ‘Excuse me, what is the _deal_ here? I swear I’m about to lose power this week or something because I can’t freaking pay my bills.’ And he was all, ‘Okay, here, take some more shifts.’”

“That’s good!” Alfred offered. He took a step toward the door. Feliks intercepted him.

“Yeah, except it’s totally _not_ good at _all._ He gave me like four double shifts this week! It feels like I’ve been working for, like, seventy-two hours straight. No joke.”

“Oh. That’s…not good.”

“ _No,_ it’s not good. I, like, _just_ said that. Like, just now. Anyway, normally I can handle it because I’m totally the hardest worker in this joint, but like, now they have me serving those freaks in the corner and, oh my god, those guys make me _so_ anxious, Al. Like, they don’t even _make_ meds strong enough to chill me out on their weird ‘game nights.’”

“Look, Feliks, I’d love to help, but you gotta—”

“So, like I said, I’m running on literally _no_ sleep, and my hands keep shaking so I’m spilling shit everywhere. Do you know how much of that weird beet soup is seeping through my shirt? Oh my god, Al, I look like a _crime scene_ right now. Don’t even lie to me, because I know it’s true. And they just keep _asking_ me for things. Except the one big guy with the scarf? You know him? He, like, doesn’t even ask me for anything. He just _smiles_ at me when I come by, and it totally freaks me out because I feel like, should I be doing more? Did I forget something he wanted? Oh my god, is he going to _fire_ me? Because he totally could. He could totally fire me.”

“Feliks, I’ve _got_ to go. I really can’t—”

“ _Basically_ , I’m burning up in a living hell right now, and being in this hot ass kitchen _so_ isn’t helping me, so I’m gonna dip. But first, can you like, just check on those guys for me? You’re so good with people, Al! They’ll totally like you, and maybe they won’t ask you for as much bullshit since your shift is pretty much over, and I swear I’d owe you, like, my whole life, because—”

“Sure thing.” He agreed automatically, because he was only half listening. Because it would get Feliks to stop talking. Because then, he could go back out there and _get his money_. “I’ll go check on the guys. Let me just finish up with my last table, ‘kay?”

“Oh my god, _thank you_ , Al.” Feliks pushed his tray onto a counter and tore off his apron. He started pulling off his nametag next, but by the time Alfred thought to protest—Because _Jesus Christ,_ _he didn’t agree to take the table off his hands completely—_ Feliks said, “You are, like, my hero. For real.”

A smile returned to Alfred’s lips. “Sure I am. Don’t mention it. Except to anyone who asks.”

“Like, no one asks about you, I _promise_.” The blonde turned on a heel and threw a wave over his shoulder. “Bye-bye, you totally heroic guy, you!”

Alfred scratched the back of his neck. He wondered if he’d ever be able to say the word ‘totally’ again without wincing. But he couldn’t dwell. He shifted the to-go cup to his opposite hand and shoved through the kitchen doors.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself. Impatience was written in every line of his client’s body. The man had resorted to pacing. Alfred put on a smile. He’d not yet had to deal with angry customers in _this_ line of work, but he’d heard plenty horror stories. Not to mention everything movies had taught him about drug deals gone wrong. He remembered a few lines he’d seen heroes use to deescalate situations, and that made him feel more confident. As he approached, he caught the tail end of a hushed conversation.

“…supposed to know that douchebag would be back today? Of all fuckin’ days, right?” The red-eyed man snatched a leather jacket off the back of his seat before attempting to pull the girl’s chair out for her. She swatted him away and stood herself. The man laughed sharply before turning face-to-face with Alfred. “You. Dammit. Look, we’re getting out of here. I’m not trying to stick around until Borscht diarrhea hits the fan and starts flying all over the place.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Alfred said, not getting it. “Let me just collect your payment and you guys are free to go.”

His eyes fell to the crinkled bills lumped on the table. He frowned. His pay was supposed to be fanned out, for easy counting. It was one of his policies. Made it easier for him to see, right away, if he was being stiffed. Maybe his customer just forgot. He was new, after all. Alfred picked up the cash in his free hand, thumbed through it, and frowned. “Hey, this isn’t enough for your—Cola.”

“Screw the Cola, Barbie boy. No one told us _that_ son of a bitch was here.” The man stepped close, so Alfred could smell the liquor on his breath. “Listen here. You might be chained to this hellhole like a schoolgirl strapped to her kinky lover’s bedpost, and that sucks balls for you. But that’s not my problem, and I don’t like rope burns on my wrists. You understand what I’m saying?”

“Gilbert, no one ever knows what the fuck you’re saying,” the girl said, and snorted a laugh when he glared at her. “It’s true.”

“Well then, allow me to translate to Stupid Motherfucker.” Gilbert’s focus slid back to Alfred. “We’re leaving. It was safe here for a while. Now it’s not, and I’m just upset I had to find it out myself. But that’s okay because, I repeat, we are getting the fuck out of here.”

“You can’t…just do that, though.” Alfred frowned and switched the cup to his other hand. “You already said you were buying. I risk my ass every time I drop this shit in a to-go cup. You can’t just walk off now.”

Gilbert looked surprised. The corner of his mouth curled on a sneer. “Oh yeah? I can’t walk out? What do you wanna do about it, candy ass? Gonna knock my teeth out and make me pick ‘em back up? Gonna turn my kneecaps to silly putty? ‘Cause I guarantee you, whatever you have in mind, it’s _Candyland_ compared to what that Soviet-born sadist jerks himself off to.” Crimson eyes flicked from one of Alfred’s, to the other, and back. “I heard your business was running _real_ good…while he was away. If I were you, though? I’d find a new pot to piss in, now that the bear’s come out of hibernation.”

Alfred stared at the other man, blue eyes locked on red. His fingers tightened around the top of the to-go cup. For a moment, no one said anything. Only their breathing was audible. Gilbert was first to retreat.

“Grab your keys, babe. We’re driving to Buttfuck Egypt before I’ll torture myself another second in this place.” He looked over his shoulder at the girl texting behind him. “Elizabeta? Oh, you’re messaging the hubby. I see. Star-crossed lovers who can’t stand to be apart for longer than it takes the damn appetizer to come out.”

“What?” Elizabeta looked up. When she registered what he’d said, she scowled. “Eat shit. We’re planning something for _you_ , so at least read the group chat before you start getting all jealous.”

Gilbert stepped beside her, slinging his jacket around her shoulders. “Ooh, kinky. You should write the new _Kamasutra_.” He glanced at Alfred one last time. “And _you_ should write an autobiography, before you’re gone, and everyone forgets the brand of stupid you used to be.”

Elizabeta smiled, glanced at his nametag. “I tipped you extra, for putting up with his shit. Have a good night, Alfred!”

With that, the pair made for the exit. Alfred watched them go. Cursing, he fumbled with the lid of the to-go cup until he heard a _pop_. He hunched in around himself to block the view, snatched up the baggy, and swore again as he shook water off the plastic, before tucking it back in his shirt. Just then, an invisible thread of energy drew his attention to the back corner. A haze of smoke confirmed what he already knew: Game night was at its peak.

Alfred trashed the cup of water on his way over. More people populated the table than usual. An animated buzz clung to the air, like so many volts of electricity. Alfred wandered close, choking on the stink of too much booze. This was more than just another game night, he thought. This was a _celebration_. And the guest of honor appeared to be…

The tails of a white scarf stole his focus. Alfred followed it up to the curve of a broad jawline, and higher still. Pale lips smiled a pale smile set against paler skin. This creature must have been chiseled from marble, Alfred thought, because each of his features was precisely cut, from the high planes of his cheeks to the hooked bridge of his nose. Even his imperfections looked deliberate—And there were many—like the dimple set into only one corner of his mouth, or the pencil thin scar that curled over the top of his scarf and under his chin. A fringe of silver-beige hair skewed across his brow. Lower than that, light lashes framed eyes the color of lilacs. And they were _watching him_.

“Hi!” Alfred blurted, and realized he was already grinning too much to put on his Customer Service smile. “My name’s Alfred and I’ll be taking over as your server for the night. I…guess. Can I get y’all some beverages? Soups? Snacks?”

He scanned the blur of faces around him, notepad at the ready. Lovino glowered off to his left, but instead of piping up with insults or threats, the Italian flicked his cigar and returned to his cards. Even Feliciano was quieter than usual, humming gently to himself while he studied his hand. The mice weren’t playing anymore.

Movement flickered in the corner of Alfred’s eye. He snapped to attention, which was easy, because he’d never completely strayed from the figure at the head of the table. This, he thought, must be the Old Bear. He _must_ be. The man twitched a finger, looking ready to speak. Alfred leaned forward, hooked on the promise of putting a voice to the face. He did his best to drown out the surrounding chatter, but he could swear it lowered on its own. Then, Toris spoke instead.

“Oh! Um, he’ll want another bottle of vodka, please.” A too-cheery smile flashed on Toris’ face. He bowed his head awkwardly. “Eduard will know the one. Thank you.”

The bear closed his mouth and looked back at his cards. A feeling of vague dissatisfaction replaced his gaze, but Alfred smiled anyway. “My pleasure. Anything else? What about you, Lovino?”

Lovino’s expression darkened. He met Alfred’s eyes, and Alfred wondered if he could see the mischief dancing there. His smile crept wider. He knew he was pushing it, they both did, but Alfred needed to know something: How did mice behave when the cat—Or bear— _wasn’t_ away? He cocked his head.

“Some of that Masseto sound good?”

Lovino looked at him. Looked at the man in the scarf, but not for long. His eyes dropped as he ground out the word, “Whatever.” And that was it.

Victory surged Alfred’s veins. He suppressed a laugh, continued taking orders. The whole time, his attention kept flicking back to the man with violet eyes. Once, those eyes were already on Alfred by the time he glanced up. His breath caught. He played it off by looking to Toris instead.

“And what can I get you, Toris, my dude?”

“Oh, I’m fine, thank you.” Toris sat next to the bear, but he pressed against the back of his seat, like he would rather phase through it and disappear. “I should keep a clear head.”

“A water, then.” Alfred grinned and scribbled it down. “No problem. I’ll be back faster than you can spell Mississippi.”

Alfred resisted the urge to look back. He could _feel_ that gaze now, all purple and guarded and—Curious? Alfred thought that was it. What the bear was curious about, he had no way of knowing. He tried not to let his imagination run wild with theories.

He reached the bar. Counted to three. Whipped his head around. But he couldn’t see anyone watching him now; if they were, the smoke was too thick to tell.

“Hey Eduard?” Alfred leaned against the counter, eyes never straying from that back corner. “You’ve worked here a while, yeah? Can you tell me anything about the, uh, _Old Bear?_ ”

“Hm?” A presence filled the space behind Alfred as Eduard’s voice filled his ears. “Tsk. Don’t even recognize your boss. I’d say it’s sad but…honestly, you can consider yourself lucky.”

“Lucky?” Alfred murmured. A pale blur flickered behind the veil of smoke. He squinted. He was pretty sure it was the bear, but the table was too far away to tell.

“Or unlucky,” Eduard allowed, “seeing as you’ve had to meet him at all.”

“Like…what’s so bad about him, though?” Alfred turned, and a bottle blocked his view.

“Is this why you came over here? Because if it is, you’d better get it to him.”

Alfred accepted the bottle, fumbling to read the label. It was vodka. “Yeah, how’d you know he…? Well, whatever. I’m working on it. I’m just trying to see—”

“And something for the others.” Eduard piled a few more bottles into Alfred’s arms and swatted him away. “Go, now. You want to know about the boss, yes? First lesson, you never keep him waiting. Not ever. So, go. Or you’ll learn more about him than you ever wanted to.”

“Yeah… Okay.” _Whatever that means._ Alfred flashed half a smile in farewell. “You’re a great bartender, dude. I’ll put in a good word for you!”

Eduard flustered, proud. “Oh. Well, yes, I am. But, I wouldn’t know if, erm, there’s no reason to, well—”

Alfred sauntered away before he could hear the rest. He glanced at the front door as he passed by. He should be heading out for the night. He should be on a long bus ride home, planning how to get to his side of the room without encountering Arthur. Maybe he’d sneak a little more of his marijuana; it wasn’t stealing, exactly, because the money he made would come to benefit all of them.

Instead, Alfred found himself concerned with how to initiate a conversation with this bear everyone kept buzzing about. He wondered if the man even spoke English, tried to recall a few Russian words Arthur had taught him. The problem was, Arthur taught strictly, verbally, by-the-book. He didn’t acknowledge Alfred’s preference for kinesthetic learning until much later on. And by that point, well, they were too caught up in the _kinesthetics_ of their lessons to really pay heed to the content matter.

Those thoughts dissolved as Alfred stepped through the smokescreen. Half the table was shouting, applauding. The other half was cursing in Italian. He couldn’t suppress a smile when he saw Toris kiss the crucifix around his neck. He cleared his throat once the noise died down.

“So, who had the vodka?” Alfred watched the head of the table. He didn’t bother with subtleties. He knew who the bottle in his right hand was for. What he didn’t know was, well, just about everything else about this man. He intended to learn. “Vodka?”

“Right down here.” Toris smiled and Alfred’s eyes shifted half an inch to look at him, before flicking back. The Old Bear didn’t so much as quirk a brow in Alfred’s direction. His focus was on his cards, and certainly _not_ on Alfred.

Alfred’s smile wavered. “Sweet. Coming your way.”

He distributed bottles of whiskey, wine, and a couple drinks he couldn’t pronounce the name of. Then, he stood back and watched when Toris presented the bear with his vodka. The man murmured something to Toris, without looking at him, and placed a bet on the table. Alfred’s attention flickered to the bear’s hands. They were large, pale, with tension written into every tendon. The skin around his knuckles was cracked and scarred, and Alfred could tell it felt rough to touch—Not that he was thinking of touching him. Those calloused fingers returned to his cards, idly stroking blunted edges. Every so often, he flicked the corner of one, and though Alfred didn’t hear it, he could imagine the gentle _thwick, thwick, thwick_ of his nail against the cardboard. Never before had a silent sound proven so hypnotic.

“Are you wanting to play?”

Alfred startled. For one frantic second, he searched the table for the source of the question. But, as he registered each harsh syllable, as that rolling accent nestled in his mind, he knew who the words belonged to. Blue eyes met violet once more.

“Well?” The Old Bear arched his brow. Something very much like a smirk traced the corners of his lips. “You seem very interested in the game.”

“Oh.” Alfred laughed, an involuntary hitch of sound. His mouth went dry. “Uh. I mean—”

“Oi, look at him! He is _il bambino!_ ” Lovino cut both hands across the table to emphasize his point. “He cannot play cards.”

“Bambino,” Alfred repeated to himself. His nose crinkled. “Like, as in, Babe Ruth?”

Lovino clicked his tongue and took a long swig from his cup. A few other men laughed. The Old Bear didn’t.

“Can you play?”

That voice again; it sounded like a _purr_. Alfred shuddered when he followed it back to the head of the table. Lavender eyes watched his with smoldering intent.

“Oh. Huh. I don’t know.” One side of Alfred’s mouth quirked higher than the other. “What is this anyway? Rummy?”

That was his first bluff of the night.

The air erupted into gales of laughter. Applause thundered around him. Whoops and howls of amusement accented the sound. Even the Old Bear smiled as he shook his head. Someone with an accent that wasn’t quite Italian spoke above the din.

“Hey, as long as the kid’s got money to bet, I say we let him in!” The man grinned with bright green eyes. “How many tips did you make tonight, _amigo?_ ”

“If that bastard’s playing, he ain’t joining our side,” Lovino grumbled.

Others piped up with encouragement or complaints. An argument sparked in a language Alfred didn’t understand. Then, the bear’s rumbling accent broke through the noise; he didn’t even raise his voice, everyone else just quieted to listen.

“Toris, stand up so this boy has a place to sit.”

“Right away, boss.” Toris stumbled in his haste to flee his chair. He straightened up and smiled when he beckoned Alfred over. “Don’t worry, Alfred. Poker isn’t very hard. You’ll learn while you play.”

Alfred maintained his absent smile. That was _his_ poker face. “Gosh, thanks, Toris. I hope you guys will have patience with me. I’m gonna do my best.”

He paused in front of his seat. The Old Bear lit a cigarette beside him. Alfred stood so close, he swore he could feel the heat of his match. Smoke shivered and curled over the edges of the boss’s lips. Alfred’s eyes hooked on glowing orange embers. The man looked like he was breathing fire.

Alfred had only choked on a cigarette drag once in high school, and his dad threatened to make him smoke a whole pack when he found out. But now, something about that delicate paper cylinder dangling loose between the boss’s teeth, the way his tongue nudged against it every so often… It was captivating. Alfred took his seat and asked, “Can I have one?”

“No,” the Old Bear murmured, and passed the carton to someone else.

The boss gestured once, and everyone began gathering their cards, collecting their cash. Then, he stacked the cards against the table, tapping them all into place. He set the deck in front of Alfred and said, “Cut it.”

“Oh, shit, actually… Can I shuffle?” Alfred beamed. “I just learned how to do the bridge thing and I wanna try it out.”

Violet eyes studied his. For a time, Alfred wondered if they could read the truth on him, like that he’d been playing poker since high school. Or that Arthur had taught him ‘magic tricks’ that improved his sleight of hand. But then, the bear shrugged and handed over the cards.

“Cool! Okay, so, I just gotta remember how to…” Alfred ignored the impatient clicks and clucks of the people watching him. He bent the cards over one another, listened to the satisfying rush of paper. Then, he twisted his fingers, and the cards spilled out of his hands.

“Shit, sorry! I got it.” Alfred ducked under the table. A choir of curses and groans sounded overhead. He heard the irritable drumming of people’s fingers against the wood and didn’t care. He searched the scatter of diamonds and hearts, clubs and spades. Swiftly, he found a pair of aces, a king, and flipped them into his sleeve. Then, with the rest of the cards secured, he returned to his seat.

“Sorry,” he repeated, bashful. “I guess I’m not as good as I thought.”

“Keep practicing.” The Old Bear mumbled around his cigarette. Smoke streamed between his teeth. He reached out a hand, and Alfred gave the cards back. In a few practiced motions, he shuffled the deck and _thunked_ it onto the table. “Why don’t you cut the deck now?”

Alfred perked up. “I can do that!”

He divided the deck as equally down the middle as he could. He set the top half closest to him. A low rumble caught his attention. The Old Bear was chuckling. Alfred cocked his head.

“What’s up?” he asked.

The boss shook his head, stacked the cards, and began to distribute them. “They say if you cut the deck away from the dealer, you do not trust him.”

“Oh, shoot, I didn’t even realize I’d—”

“Do you not trust me?” The Old Bear paused what he was doing. His eyes locked on Alfred’s. A thread of tension crackled between them. Suddenly, they were the only two there. Without thinking, he licked his lips; the bear’s own tongue flicked against the end of his cigarette. Alfred’s throat bobbed when he swallowed, but he couldn’t tell if the boss did the same; he was protected by that damned scarf.

Quietly, Alfred said, “I trust you.”

The boss broke into a smirk. All at once, the tension shattered. The candles around them seemed to glow brighter, then flicker when he said, “You really are a beginner, then.”

“Unlucky for you,” Lovino called, “because it’s your turn, _bambino_.”

 _Unlucky for_ you, Alfred thought, _because those hearts on the table match the ones in my sleeve._

“Oh man. Okay! I’ll bet the tip from my last table. So, that’s ten bucks, if that’s okay? And, I’m trying to collect one card from every suit, right?” Alfred looked from his cards to the cards in the community hand. “And, like, all the different numbers too? Or no?”

“Ai, _Madonna_.” Lovino rolled his eyes and threw twenty bucks on the table. The men to his left also raised their bets.

“Ah, Alfred, are you familiar with the different card rankings?” Toris frowned and started to set down his own cards. “Maybe I should—”

“Don’t hover, Toris.” The bear flicked ash into a glass tray. Alfred noticed a muscle twitch in his jaw, but he tugged his scarf up to hide it. _A bad hand, then._ “Let him figure it out.”

And “figure it out,” Alfred did. Or that was how it appeared to his competition. Each round, Alfred played a little more confidently, encouraged a few more people to fold. When he got the Old Bear sweating, he knew he was close to taking the pot. And this wasn’t the one he planned to piss in.

“ _Figlio di troia._ ” Lovino finished his drink with a hiss. “I fold. I’m out. Done.”

“Ah, Lovino, I think—”

“Don’t say it, _bastardo_.” Lovino interrupted his brother with a scowl.

“I have to fold too!” Feliciano cried, tossing down his cards. “I have to. There is no way I’ll win, and he’s just going to keep taking our money.”

Alfred looked around at all the cards folded on the table. He heard some people whispering about “American luck” and smiled to himself. He didn’t know about luck, but he did know he’d have to swap out his cards soon, before he had to reveal his hand. He also knew the Old Bear next to him didn’t know when to give up—And there was no way he had a better hand than what Alfred was about to have. He twisted his wrist against his hidden hearts and waited for the final round.

Two more men laid down their cards.

Alfred’s chest swelled with excitement. His eyes flicked to the pool of cash in the middle. Then, he counted the number of dead hands. Almost everyone was out. Everyone except…

“Looks like it’s you and me, boss.” Alfred angled his chair toward his opponent and straddled it more comfortably. His smile never faltered; he’d worn it the entire game.

“Four hearts on the table,” the Old Bear mused. “That is almost a straight flush right there.”

“I guess it is,” Alfred drawled. He crossed one leg over the other, threw in a wink for good measure. “I know what _I_ got, so it’d be a shame if you had a couple of black cards in that hand of yours. You’d basically be—I don’t know how to say this in technical terms—screwed?”

A low whistle rose in the audience. “This kid has some balls on him, _viejo_ , I’ll say that.” The man with the not-Italian accent spoke. Alfred learned to call him Antonio, though Lovino preferred impolite pet names.

The Old Bear considered those words. Then, his eyes found Alfred’s. He pushed the cigarette stub from between his teeth and crushed it with the pad of his thumb. Dying embers sizzled against the wood. The two of them held each other’s gaze for a long time: Alfred grinning with casual arrogance, the boss entirely impassive. The smoke around them had grown thin, but the air thickened with something else now. Alfred liked to think it was victory— _His_ victory, drifting ever closer.

“I am going to raise,” the Old Bear said, and placed his bet on the table.

“Boss.” Toris smiled nervously, and the bear turned to face him. “Caution might be our best tactic now. This is a new opponent, and we don’t know his tells. It feels impossible to know when he’s bluffing.” A hesitation, and then, “I don’t think _he_ even knows when he’s bluffing.”

 _Perfect opportunity._ Alfred settled back in his chair. One of his fingers curled, to the graze the cards in his sleeve. An ace of hearts, and a king of the same suit. Maybe he did owe some of this to luck.

“Hey Raivis.” Alfred shuffled his cards together idly and waited for the teenager’s attention. “Sorry to make you take over as server, dude. I know it’s a lot to handle, but I promise I’ll be tipping you real good at the end of the night.”

Large eyes brightened on the young blonde’s face. “Oh! I don’t really mind. It’s only bad when the Italians start being rude, and the boss ends up in a bad mood. Sometimes he’s better when he’s been drinking, but sometimes he’s worse.”

“Raivis…” Toris warned.

The two started up a hushed conversation, but Alfred stopped listening. He only watched them, giving the illusion of focus, while his hands did the real work. His cards shuffled and twirled between his fingers. Then, one slipped into his sleeve as he thumbed the other one out. The swap happened quickly, as expertly as Arthur had taught him. He did it again, as seamlessly as before, until he held the cards to complete a royal flush.

“So, we ready to call the round, boss—?” Alfred’s eyes flicked over the rims of his glasses. His breath stuttered. _The Old Bear was looking right at him._

Shit.

Had he seen Alfred switch his cards? A trickle of sweat skipped along his hairline. And the bear _smiled._

_Shit._

He was caught. His opponent—His _boss_ —had seen him cheating and… But, no. The man looked back at his cards, as calmly as before. So maybe he hadn’t seen? Or was he only _letting Alfred get away with it?_ Alfred glanced at his own hand. Up again. And—there. Something wasn’t right. The Old Bear’s cards… One of them had a bent corner and that, that wasn’t _there_ before, was it? He…

_He was cheating too._

“Should we call the round?” the bear repeated, nonchalant. “I don’t recall you making your bet.”

“Uh. I’ll…” Alfred’s eyes darted over the man’s face. The subtle curve of his lips. The faint purple rings around his eyes. He looked tired, but he also looked _aware._ “I’ll raise.”

Alfred stretched forward to set his money on the table. It was the last of his tips and, though he knew he’d win it back just as quickly, the emptiness didn’t feel right. He couldn’t even catch a bus home without _something_ in his pocket. He shook off the thoughts. _He_ held the royal flush. There was nothing higher than that. He was invincible.

“Alright,” the bear allowed. His eyes wandered from his cards to the cards on the table. “I win.”

“What?” Alfred sat forward. The corner of his mouth twisted sharply upwards. “Bullshit, you win. Lemme see your hand.”

The Old Bear raised his brows. A quiet murmur buzzed around the table. Maybe it was the way Alfred made his demands. Maybe it was bad enough, calling the boss a liar. Either way, the man shrugged and placed his hand on the table. Alfred’s blood froze solid.

“Ace and king of hearts,” the Old Bear said, as though Alfred couldn’t _freaking see that with his own stupid eyes._ “So, you see? I win. You don’t have anything that can beat a royal flush, do you?”

Violet eyes bore into Alfred’s own. It was a trick question. That hand was the highest in the game. And Alfred had it too, he was _holding it right now_ , but he couldn’t _say_ that or… He could accuse his boss of cheating, but then all the man needed to do was make Alfred unbutton the cuffs of his shirt. And, if he wasn’t careful, something more than cards might fall out. He still had some of the day’s cannabis supply stocked in his shirt.

“Ha.” Alfred forced a weak laugh. A cold numbness trickled through him as he tried not to look at all the money heaped upon the table. He tossed his cards face down in the discard pile and dropped his palms to his lap. “You got me. You win.”

“Ah! Congratulations, boss.” Toris smiled, nearly touched the bear’s shoulders, then thought better of it and recoiled.

“Yeah, boss!” Raivis chimed in. “We knew you would win back twice as much as Toris lost last time—Which was a lot!”

“Oh, yes, _è tutto molto_ _perfettisimo_.” Lovino lit another cigar, coughing around a fresh plume of smoke. “I lost my money, but at least I didn’t lose it to the twink who didn’t learn how to play Old Maid until last week.”

Alfred mustered half a smile and slid out of his seat. The sounds of celebration drowned out his voice. “Good game, guys. I guess I better get going. Long walk home and all.”

He threw up a lazy peace sign, even though no one was watching. Then, he ambled off toward the exit. Maybe, on the way home, he could sell the last of what he had hidden in his shirt. The hard part would be coming up with an excuse for Arthur as to why he’d made hardly any money on a Saturday night. Alfred sighed, the bell rang overhead, and he resolved to take the long way home.

A deep, accented voice caught him at the door. “Alfred.”

A shiver licked up his spine. His name, said like _that_ … He turned and, though he was expecting him, his temperature spiked when he spotted the Old Bear.

“Hey, boss.” Alfred hesitated. He wouldn’t get fired for cheating at a card game, would he? Suddenly, he remembered Gilbert’s warnings. Maybe there were worse things to fear than being laid off. His mouth twitched. “Really close game tonight. I was sure I had you.”

“You played well. For a beginner.” He said it deliberately, _knowingly_ , and Alfred’s smile turned sheepish.

“Yeah, well, I watch a lot of movies.”

“And in the end of your movies, the hero always wins, no?” The man stood tall, formidable. The breadth of his shoulders blocked the light behind him, so only the edges of his suit, and the very ends of his hair, glowed a deep, iridescent orange. “You are making big tips, I noticed.”

“Oh, yeah.” Alfred shivered again. He told himself that, this time, it was from the breeze creeping through the open door. “What can I say? People like me.”

“So, you must be a hero.” A green bundle appeared, pinched in the man’s fingers. He nodded once, casting most the shadow off his face. “Take your winnings.”

Alfred stared. His mouth dropped open on empty syllables before he managed, “I didn’t win, though. You beat me fair and—Well, you beat me.”

Another one of those roiling chuckles. It sounded like how an earthquake felt. The bear gestured with his cash. “I am only returning the money you put down, no more. You earned it first, by working hard. I respect that.”

Alfred considered. Another gust of wind ruffled his hair, fogged the edges of his glasses. Somehow, seeing this man through frosted panes of glass felt…fitting. And then, Alfred didn’t care about the money. He put his hand out because he wanted to confirm two suspicions: First, his earlier theory that the man’s hands were rough. And his second, newer idea that this man _felt_ as cold as he _looked._

He shivered one last time when the Old Bear’s skin grazed his. It was coarse and cool, like asphalt on an autumn eve. The contact only lasted a second, and when the man pulled back, a roll of rumpled bills remained.

“Hey… Hey!” Alfred’s astonishment grew, brightened into an expression of heartfelt joy. He closed his hand around his pay. “That’s…real good of you, boss. Thanks. Er…Old Bear? I don’t…really…” He bit the inside of his cheek and asked a question that hadn’t occurred to him until now. “What should I call you, exactly?”

That soft smile found its way back to the man’s lips. In that moment, he looked like a sculpture, or something ethereal. Moonlight bathed his skin, his hair, in silver luminescence. Meanwhile, the candles inside sent shadows and flame whirling across his clothes, and the fabric of his scarf. He tugged it up higher, almost to obscure his mouth. Alfred watched the hand lingering near his jaw; he didn’t want to touch it again, but he wouldn’t exactly protest if he had to.

It seemed a long time before the answer came. “Ivan.”

“Ivan.” Alfred sampled the name, decided he liked it better than any of the wine he served. He nodded, once, and shifted against the door. “Good to meet ya. I’m Alfred. You…know that, though.”

The other man’s eyes glinted, like the edge of a violet blade. His smile was softer than the next whisper of wind. “Be careful who you play with, Alfred. Very few people follow the rules.”

“But the hero always does.” He said it because he could feel the conversation ending. Because he couldn’t think of anything else to say, but he didn’t want to go—Not yet—and this sounded true enough, so it was as good a response as any.

“Does he?” Ivan, the Old Bear, gave Alfred a slow onceover. Then, without waiting for an answer, he stepped back into the dim glow of the restaurant. Long wisps of cigarette smoke trailed behind him, then vanished.

“Holy…shit.” Alfred’s fist crumpled around his money. Something stiff prevented his hand from closing all the way. Frowning, he brought the bills up close for examination. A splash of red caught his eye, and he realized: The bills were curled around a single ace of hearts, the one with the bent corner. Alfred’s chest lurched. His smile returned.

Money was valuable, he knew, but this card was a treasure.


	3. Quality

It was the end of the month, and Alfred was broke.

Since the Old Bear’s return, Alfred’s sales had plummeted. Begrudgingly, he realized Gilbert was right: Business was going well before, but now the boss was back, and no one wanted to step on the toes of his finely polished shoes. Alfred didn’t see the big deal. Ivan hardly ever appeared in the restaurant itself, except on game nights. Sure, Alfred had seen him outside a few times, tending the sunflowers in an early morning mist. He looked like a ghost out there, a pale spirit with blurred edges, drifting among bright yellow blossoms. Other than that, his presence was scarce.

Well, Alfred supposed he shouldn’t say that. Just because Ivan didn’t physically visit the diner, that didn’t mean he was not _present_. Indeed, the man’s essence clung to the space like a lingering frost. The weather outside grew warmer with the passing days, but the restaurant’s interior remained cool. It drove everyone to work harder, as though they feared standing still might freeze them.

No matter how hard Alfred worked, though, he couldn’t afford rent. His tips weren’t enough to live on. People stopped asking for diet Pepsi, and when they did ask, they corrected themselves once he said they didn’t have it. So, Alfred moved to the streets. He wanted to avoid that option, but the electricity bill was three days late, and water was due. It was desperation that led him to the nearest medical school, where he stood for over three hours.

The building towered high and grey above him. Students who looked just stressed enough to self-medicate filtered past. They reminded him of Arthur, except they nagged him less, and their eyebrows were thinner. He ambled through the crowd, adjusted his jacket, and wondered if he would get arrested for loitering. Then, a second thought: If the police did show up, loitering would be the least of his trouble.

“Hey!” He flashed a smile at one fellow, a bespectacled brunette with a mole on his chin. The student glanced over his shoulder, as though he expected Alfred to be talking to someone else. He kept walking. Alfred followed. “Hey, wait. You know Gilbert, don’t you?”

The student turned, regarding him with cool violet eyes. He said nothing.

“I’m just asking because I’ve seen you hanging out with him a couple times. Outside that Russian place. You know, with the sunflowers out front.” Alfred's smile widened, more desperate than welcoming. “You see, Gilbert's a good customer of mine and, seeing as you're his friend, I was thinking—”

“Does he owe you money?”

“Uh…” Alfred shifted his weight. The way this man spoke, with such obvious distaste, Alfred began to doubt his own intuition. But he knew he’d seen the pair together just the other day. They sat so close their knees touched and spoke in whispers intended only for each other. And sure, the brunette often looked annoyed during those meetings—Alfred figured that was just the natural state of his face—but he certainly didn’t appear malicious. So, Alfred kept on. “No money, no. Actually, I kinda feel like I owe _him_. Like I said, he’s a great customer of mine and, seeing as you’re his friend—”

The student crinkled his nose.

“Okay, seeing as you’re his…acquaintance…?” Alfred paused for a protest that didn’t come, then continued. “I thought you might also be interested in what I, uh, in what I have to sell.”

Violet eyes narrowed. “What is it?”

“Oh, well, I’m happy to explain.” Alfred flashed a winning smile. His muscles loosened up as his confidence returned. “First, let me introduce myself. I’m Alfred. And you are…?”

“Roderich,” the student said after a beat. He didn’t move to accept Alfred’s outstretched hand, so Alfred stuck it in his pocket instead.

“Roderich. Pleased to meet ya.” His thumb grazed a hidden Ziploc bag and he took a breath, exhaling on a brighter smile. “You see, Roderich, I like to consider myself a sort of small-scale self-starter. You know what I’m saying? I’m just your typical college-aged dude, trying to pay rent and afford instant noodles like all the rest of us. Only, the food business isn’t cutting it anymore. So, yeah, I had to take it upon myself to find another source of income. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“A self-starter, you say?” The student straightened up, speaking more fluidly now. “Is it art you’re selling, then? Music? I've been looking for some new independent artists to commission. I’m not trying to fund any corporate ‘art festival’ nonsense.”

“Oh, yeah, no, it’s nothing like that.” Alfred shuffled his feet, nudging the item in his pocket. “I mean, it _is_ art…in a way. Look, how about I just show you what I’m—”

“ _Ciao!_ Alfred! Yoo-hoo!”

Alfred stiffened at the familiar voice. Violet eyes flicked over his shoulder, and the student turned to go. Alfred tried to catch his arm. “Hey, wait, we can just ignore him a minute. I was talking to you first so—”

“Alfred, _amico!_ ” A hand clapped around Alfred’s shoulder, startling him. Roderich took the opportunity to escape. “You didn’t hear me, did you?”

Alfred smelled the man before he saw him: A deep blend of cologne and cigar smoke. His smile turned stony as he watched his potential customer slip away. He took a deep breath, tried to shrug the hand away. It stayed, so he did his best to ignore it instead.

“Hey, Feliciano.” Alfred watched the younger Vargas brother step out in front of him. The man was dressed sharply in a navy three-piece. A pink flower blossomed from his breast pocket, matching the socks that peeked under his pantlegs. And of course, his signature hat sat tilted over his brow, reminding Alfred that he hadn’t yet worn his own.

“I was going for a walk when I saw you trying to sell something.” The young man smiled brightly and tilted his head to the side. Sunlight reflected in his eyes, like pools of molten honey. “You look like you’re having a hard time, mm?”

“Actually, I think I was just about to make a sale before…” Alfred glanced at the hand on his shoulder, at the rosy glow of Feliciano’s cheeks, and smiled a little wider. “I mean, it hasn’t been a _super_ busy day or anything, but that’s not because my product isn’t good. I could prove it, if you wanted to consider buying—”

“Is it the same stuff you were selling at the restaurant?”

Alfred choked. “What?” He laughed, high and broken, before clearing his throat. “I don’t know what you’re…” Alfred paused. He looked instinctively from side to side, then stepped in close. “Was it that obvious to people who weren’t buying?”

“Ah? You were trying to keep it a secret?” Feliciano’s brow creased in a troubled little frown. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t tell. But I _would_ like to try some, if you’re feeling generous!”

“Try some?” Now, it was Alfred’s turn to feel troubled. His hand flexed over the lump in his pocket. “Feli, this isn’t something I can just give out free samples for. And trust me, I love free samples. But if you wanna try it, you’ll have to pay. If you want, you can just buy a little bit at first, and then come back for more when you see how awesome it is.”

Feliciano leveled him with a blank but cheerful gaze. His fingers tightened over Alfred’s shoulder, at once reminding him that they never left. “Why don’t we take a walk together, mm?” He gestured widely with his other hand and said, “It is a very beautiful day. _Bellissimo_.”

“I was actually hoping to stay here and try to get some business going before Arthur—” That iron grip on his shoulder steered him out onto the sidewalk, so he changed tactics. “Yeah, okay. Let’s walk.”

“I’m happy you agreed.” Feliciano’s smile confirmed his words. He walked with a natural bounce in his step that Alfred tried to emulate, lest he fall behind. All around them, high buildings reached toward swirling white clouds. Cars started and stopped in congested city traffic, and the flow of pedestrians wasn’t much better. Alfred cursed as he sidestepped someone on their phone, and they cursed back at him, louder. Feliciano hummed low.

“It is sad how self-centered some people can be.” Feliciano crossed the street, and Alfred scrambled to follow. “It’s sad because, if they only paid attention to their surroundings, they would know they were stepping on other people’s toes. Don’t you hate that, Alfred? When people step on your toes?”

Alfred’s mouth opened, but then he caught the glint in Feliciano’s eye. The man was asking more than his words implied. Alfred nearly groaned. He hated questions like these. He never knew what he was supposed to be answering.

He finally decided on honesty. “It was just an accident. I don’t think he meant anything by it.”

“Ahh. My brother always says there are no accidents. Only stupidity.” Feliciano hesitated, then laughed. “I don’t think that’s a very nice way of looking at things, but it’s okay. Maybe there’s some truth to it, even.”

“So, Lovino thinks people do things on purpose, just…stupidly.” Alfred tried to follow both the conversation and the unpredictable course of Feliciano’s feet.

“Yes, I think so. But Alfred,” Feliciano turned large, doe-like eyes on him. “Can I ask you a question, about the way _you_ think?”

Alfred stumbled, taken aback by the other man’s sudden seriousness. “Oh. Sure, dude. Go ahead.”

Feliciano’s face softened into a smile, though his eyes still brimmed with curiosity. He tilted his head again. “Thank you, that is very nice of you! Ah, so, you said I can’t try your product unless I buy it first, right?”

“That’s right. Yeah.” Alfred hesitated, then added, “Sorry, dude.”

“Ohhh, okay. So, would you buy an apartment if the owner refused to give you a tour of the inside first?”

Alfred frowned, pensive. “I mean, I don’t know, it really depends on…like…”

“Oh! Or how about, at my family’s restaurant, we have a dish called _bottarga_. You don’t know what that is, do you?” Alfred shook his head before Feliciano continued, “So? Would you buy it without even knowing what it looked, or smelled, or tasted like?”

“No, I…I guess I wouldn’t.”

“You wouldn’t! Because a customer likes to know what he is buying, or else how can he be sure it isn’t _una perdita di tempo totale?_ A total waste of time? And money?”

“Hey.” Alfred stopped walking. Feliciano staggered, then wheeled around to face him, patient. “I can _guarantee_ you will not be wasting your time _or_ money on this gold.”

“Ah? That’s so funny because I guarantee the same thing.” Feliciano laughed and squeezed Alfred’s shoulder, just a little too tightly. His gaze slipped to Alfred’s pocket before he turned away to search his own jacket. “Can you keep walking with me? My ride is just around the block, and I get so nervous, traveling alone. People in the city can be so scary.”

Alfred looked over his shoulder, at the long stretch of sidewalk separating him from his original destination. “Right… Sure, Feli. Not a problem.”

“Thank you, Alfred! I appreciate it, so much.” A plume of smoke trailed off the end of a newly lit cigar. Feliciano sucked on the other end before speaking again. “Have you ever tried a cigar, _amico?_ ”

Alfred perked up, eyes growing in wonder. Was this man, who played cards with the Old Bear twice a month, really going to share one of his fancy cigars with him? His lips quirked at the thought. “No, sir. No, I haven’t.”

“Oh.” Feliciano smiled at him, sunnier than the sky above. “I guess you will just have to buy one then!”

Alfred’s shoulders slumped. “Yeesh, okay, I get it…” His fingers drummed over the rough material of his jeans. One pocket was full of unsold product. The other was empty. “Okay, what if…we make a deal?”

“You want to make a deal? That idea sounds fun.” Feliciano smiled through a cloud of smoke. “What kind of deal did you want to make, Alfred?”

Alfred glanced over his shoulder, both ways. Then, with a sigh, he tugged the plastic bag from its place. He cupped a palm around it and showed it to the other man. “You can try some of this, if you let me try that. That’s fair, right?”

Feliciano considered. Alfred tried to convince himself it was a good proposal. He didn’t care much about the cigar, he didn’t even like smoking, but he had to sell _something_ today, and he couldn’t get a reputation for letting people sample his weed for nothing. So, _fine_ , a trade would have to work. At least then, maybe, he could walk away with something in his wallet besides that bent ace of hearts.

Finally, Feliciano offered out the cigar. “You’re sharing now? That’s good! Sharing makes you friends.”

“I guess it does.” Alfred accepted the cigar between his thumb and forefinger and tossed Feliciano his bag in return. “I don’t have any papers or anything. If you want to try it here, you’ll have to, like…”

“I don’t want to smoke it, silly! I just wanted to see.” Feliciano tilted his head to examine the contents of Alfred’s bag. Alfred looked around, nervous. They were in public, in broad daylight, and Feliciano wasn’t being subtle at _all_. Alfred shifted so his back pressed against the brick of a nearby building, and he watched as Feliciano sniffed at the bag in his hand. Alfred’s lips twitched, uncertain, as he brought up the cigar.

“You like what you—”

Suddenly, Feliciano’s laughter filled the space around him. It almost distracted him from the leisurely approach of a sleek black sports car. Alfred watched from the corner of his eye. Vague apprehension pooled in his gut, like the smoke pooling in his lungs.

“Hey, Feli?” Alfred forced his eyes to the other man’s face. His fingers twitched, eager to retrieve the bag that Feliciano was now tossing from hand to hand. “Feliciano, did you say your brother’s picking you up?”

“Oh, that’s right! Lovino will want to take a look at this too.” Feliciano gestured sharply with one hand, and that mysterious vehicle, circling them like a predator from some black lagoon, crept to the curb. “That’s really considerate of you, Alfred. Thank you for thinking of him.”

“What’s the deal, eh?” The tinted, driver’s side window rolled down, revealing a pair of sunglasses set on a scowling face. “We gonna have a problem with this _rompicoglioni_ , or no?”

Feliciano smiled at Alfred. His expression was warm, friendly, but his slip of laughter wasn’t. He ambled toward the curb and handed over Alfred’s weed. Lovino snatched it up and flicked his sunglasses back over his hair.

“Hey…” Alfred took a few slow steps toward the car. The cigar burned, unattended, in his hand. “Hey, look, this isn’t a free handout, okay? I need money if you’re gonna buy that shit, and I need it up front.”

Lovino glanced up. He leaned forward, plucked away Alfred’s cigar, and tossed it into the street. “You. Shut your mouth.”

Alfred bit his tongue when he obeyed. He watched, tense, as Lovino raised the bag of weed for inspection. He glanced at his brother, who nodded, and took a whiff of the contents. A giggle slipped past Feliciano’s lips. Lovino cut his eyes toward the sound. Slowly, his own mouth peeled back on a sneer.

“I’d tell you not to sell around here, _culo_ , but your bullshit product already spoke for me.” Lovino threw the bag at Alfred, and Alfred fumbled to catch it. Lovino snickered at the display. “Come on, Feli, this _pompinaro_ isn’t a threat. Not even close.”

“You should consider a serving position at our restaurant, _amico_.” Feliciano smiled and waved before ducking into the passenger seat. “Italian food is very tasty. People like it a lot more than Russian food, in my experience.”

“No.” Lovino scowled and settled his shades back over his eyes. “I already said, no dumbasses working at my restaurant. Hiring _you_ was enough.”

An engine roared as Lovino sped away from the curb. His windows rolled up so Alfred couldn’t see him when he laid on the horn, startling a crowd of pedestrians out of his way. Then, tires squealed around a corner, and the Vargas brothers were gone. Alfred watched, dumbfounded, before he remembered to tuck his bag away.

“Well, that was anticlimactic.” Alfred sighed, hooking his thumbs in his beltloops. Normally, he’d tuck them in his pockets, but he didn’t want to be reminded of how empty they felt. He was about to head back the way he came when another familiar voice caught his attention.

“Alfred F. Jones, where in the nine hells _were_ you?”

 _And here comes the climax_. He turned back to the curb. The car that idled alongside him was not as new, not as cared for, and certainly not as expensive as Lovino Vargas’s, but the peeling green paint was familiar, even if Alfred wished it weren’t.

“Yo, Arthur! What’s up, my dude?”

“You asked for a ride home when I got out of class. Well, I got out, went to the parking garage, and you were nowhere to be found.” Arthur pressed his first two fingers against his eyelids. “You can’t expect me to drive all over New York City every time you feel like taking a stroll.”

“Sorry, man. I lost track of time.” Alfred jogged alongside the vehicle. If he reached out, he could touch the flaking rust below the mirror. Arthur offered a thin smile.

“That’s quite the coincidence. I lost track of something too, as it happens.”

 _Here we go_ , Alfred thought. Arthur was using his Extra Fussy British Voice, which was worse than his usual fussy British voice. Alfred grinned regardless. “Yeah? What’s that?”

Arthur hummed, and his next words were sugar sweet. “Are you certain you have no idea?”

“Why would I know what—?”

“ _My weed_ , Alfred,” Arthur hissed, leaning out the car window. His visage of false cheer crumbled away. He glanced ahead, flicked on his turn signal, and gestured for Alfred to go the same way.

“What?” Alfred’s face twisted in exaggerated confusion. “Dude, are you accusing me of smoking your weed?”

“ _Hush_.” Arthur glanced around, then scrubbed a hand through his hair and sighed. “Honestly, I’m not trying to let everyone on campus know my business. Before I know it, I’ll have twenty new friends who all want to come over and play the sharing game. BYOB, they’ll say. Bring Your Own Bong.” Arthur snorted, even as his expression warped in disgust. “No, no. I’ve already had to turn away that frog, Francis Bonnefoy, on multiple occasions. Forgot my damn cologne _one time_ and that bastard wants to make me _edibles_. Ridiculous.”

“Sounds rough.” Alfred paused, gave a little shrug. “Look, Art, I gotta—”

“I’ll tell you what you ‘gotta’ do.” Suddenly, a little blue box came hurtling through the window. Alfred caught it in against his chest. He gave one sharp laugh when he read the label.

“Dude, you’ve had me do a _lot_ of weird, kinky shit over the years,” Alfred said, voice low. “But now? You want me to piss on a stick for you?”

“Yes, _dude._ ” Arthur flipped on his turn signal again, and Alfred followed. “If you are innocent, as you claim, there shouldn’t be an issue. Isn’t that right?”

Alfred stopped walking. Arthur glanced in his rearview mirror, and he slowed to a stop as well. The two watched one another, stone-faced. A silent challenge hung between them. Finally, Alfred spoke.

“You don’t believe me? Fine. I will _shed_ my _dignity_ and go take a leak in your honor.” Alfred rattled the box in his hand. “You can clone me with it later or do whatever other pervy thing you have planned.”

Arthur ignored him. “Run in to the pharmacy there, they have a public restroom. And make quick work of it. I’ll circle around the building a few times. I’m not paying for a meter while I wait.”

With that, Arthur pulled off the curb. His engine didn’t roar when he did; it clunked along in a loud, laborious whine. Alfred watched the red glow of taillights and groaned to himself. Then, he turned and headed into the pharmacy.

Once inside a bathroom stall, Alfred tore apart the cardboard box. He examined the little plastic cup inside and rolled his eyes as he wrestled with his zipper. He had nothing to worry about. He wasn’t guilty—At least not of the thing Arthur accused him of. Which reminded him…

“Shit.” Alfred fished the plastic bag out of his pants pocket. He stared at the crumbly green buds inside, separated them with his fingers. This was the most incriminating piece of evidence against him, wasn’t it? His eyes slid from the bag to the toilet. His chest clutched.

“No… No, no, fuck that.” Alfred gave a low whistle and shoved the bag in his waistband instead. Then, he adjusted himself to aim at the cup. “Arthur can fuckin’ strip search me if he wants.” He paused, as the full implication of a strip search dawned on him. That could get…awkward.

Alfred finished filling the cup, studied the provided instructions, and dropped a little plastic stick inside. With a huff of impatience, he brushed his hands off on his jeans and leaned against the stall door. Five minutes, the manual said. He had five minutes to sit alone with his thoughts. It was too long of a time period, allowed too much _rumination_ , but it also wasn’t long enough to piece together anything more than fleeting frustrations. Like how Arthur was still hovering over him, still making demands as though they hadn’t broken up months prior. Or how Feliciano Vargas had interrupted his one potential sale of the day, only to laugh in his face alongside his brother. What was up with that, anyway?

Finally, Alfred’s thoughts drifted back to lavender eyes and smoky smiles. He thought of the husky timbre of a man’s voice, and the way his hands felt—Cold, rough—when they grazed Alfred’s own. Absently, Alfred stroked the inside of his wrist to remind himself of that sensation. He moved slowly, lightly over his skin, watching as goosebumps shivered to the surface. The slamming of a stall door jarred him from his fantasy.

“Fuck—” Alfred jumped, nearly knocking over the cup of piss before righting it again. A heave of breath flooded his lungs. He needed a _fucking break._

“You all good?” A voice came from the stall next to him.

“Yeah! Uh, yeah. I’m good. Thanks.” Alfred laughed, coughed, and picked up his test. A little pink line indicated a negative result, as he knew it would. Even so, Alfred smiled. This was physical proof of his triumph against Arthur. With that in mind, he dumped the cup’s contents down the toilet, tossed his trash in a nearby bin, and went out to wash his hands. His reflection was that of a victorious man. Victorious…but still broke.

“Have a good one,” he muttered to the stranger in the occupied stall.

With a strip of paper towel securing his testing stick, Alfred waited out front for Arthur to pick him up.

“Hey, yo!” Alfred smiled at Arthur’s approach. Their secondhand (or third- or fourth-hand) Ford scraped against the curb. “Hey, I’ve got a delivery for a Mr. Asshole Kirkland?”

“Asshole Kirkland. That’s very entertaining. Why don’t you get in the—” Arthur shouted when Alfred’s drug test flew through the window at him. He dodged out of the way, hands up and shoulders hunched, before his surprise curdled into annoyance. “ _Alfred._ ”

“What? That’s what you wanted right?”

“Get in the car and pick this thing up.”

“Was I supposed to bring the cup I pissed in too? I can go back and get it.”

“Get in the car _now_.”

Arthur’s tone brooked no argument, which only made Alfred want to argue _more._ In the end, he didn’t. He knew there would be plenty to fight about without him aggravating the matter.

“You see that?” Alfred sprawled across the passenger seat and lifted the testing stick for examination. “That, my good sir, is a negative result. Which means you are _officially_ invited to gargle my balls.”

Arthur glanced at the faded pink line. He didn’t look surprised. In fact, his face didn’t change when he pulled onto the road and said, “So, you’re selling it.”

 _Fuck._ Alfred’s smile froze. “Why would you think I—”

“Alfred, please.” Green eyes met Alfred’s in the rearview mirror. Arthur looked tired. He always looked tired. “Have some respect for me here.”

Alfred inhaled deep. For a long while, he watched the traffic lumbering along outside his window. Music floated faintly through a single car speaker; the rest were broken. The song was familiar, one of Arthur’s old cassettes, because this damn car was old enough to still accept cassette tapes. Alfred sighed and tossed his bag of marijuana on the dashboard.

“I was just trying to make us some money.”

Arthur glanced over and his gaze shuttered. It wasn’t a _surprised_ expression, exactly, but something similar. It was the look of someone who prepared for the worst but, even so, hoped for something different. Something better. Alfred summed it up as disappointment. He shied from that expression.

“How long have you been doing this?” Arthur asked finally, softly.

Alfred shrugged. He tucked the weed into the glove department and started playing with the handle, determined to look anywhere, anywhere else but Arthur’s face. “A while, honestly. I’m kind of surprised you didn’t notice sooner.”

“Well, I don’t smoke every day. And they were testing at school. I had to take a break.” Arthur watched the road, seeming just as intent on avoiding Alfred’s eyes. “Alfred… I know your heart was in the right place.”

“Please don’t do that.” Alfred cut him a look. “I mean, it was. It _is._ But I just—”

“Your heart was in the right place,” Arthur repeated. “And yet, you must realize this is essentially _my_ money you’re making when you sell this stuff, yes?”

Alfred didn’t say anything.

“Blimey.” Arthur shook his head. “Surely that crossed your mind. I mean, I pay for this stuff out of pocket. And you thought, what, you’ll redistribute it and I’ll just…take the loss?”

“Hey, I’m not an idiot, okay? I sell it for a profit.” Alfred’s voice dropped when he added, “Besides I…thought you got a discount.”

Arthur’s words went flat. “A discount.”

“Yeah, dude!” Alfred threw up his hands, defensive. “You buy so much I thought you… Thought you got a discount or something. I don’t know. Yeah.”

They drove in silence for a while after that. Freddie Mercury lamented not having someone to love, while New York drivers bemoaned one another’s incompetence. When Arthur did speak again, it was with an eerie calm.

“Alfred… You go to McDonald’s every bloody day. Tell me…” A slow hiss of breath preceded the question, “Do you get a _discount?_ ”

“I have a punch card!” Alfred flipped open his wallet as evidence. “See? A punch card. What, you don’t get a…?” He cut himself off when he caught Arthur’s glare. “Fine. Never mind. Forget I asked.”

“Can I just…ask you this.” Arthur licked his lips, as though preparing himself for a difficult conversation. His hands pressed flat against the wheel. He asked his question like he didn’t want to know the answer. “How did you do this? Walk me through it.”

“You want to know how I sold the weed? Okay. Well…” Alfred thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Normally, I’d hide it in my shirt or something.”

“Where?”

“Where in my shirt?”

“No. Where did you sell?”

“I mean, just, you know. The restaurant. Why?”

The car jerked as Arthur’s foot came down too hard on a pedal. “You were _selling drugs_ at your place of business? Really Alfred? Are you _joking_ with me right now?”

“What’s the big deal? Weed’s gonna be completely legal in a few years anyway, and—”

“That is not the _point_.” Arthur rubbed at his temples before cutting a hand toward Alfred. “Go on. What else?”

“I kinda don’t wanna tell you now.” A smile broke on Alfred’s face. “But I will ‘cause it was totally genius.”

“Say it then.”

“Okay. You know how my restaurant carries Coke products? Well, we do. So, there’s no Pepsi, you know. So, basically, I just had people ask me for diet Pepsi whenever they wanted to buy. It was like a… It was a…”

“You had a codeword.” Arthur shrugged one shoulder in allowance. “Alright, that’s clever. I can appreciate a covert operation. What more?”

“So, when they asked for the Pepsi, the diet Pepsi, I would go into the kitchen and—I’m proud of this, actually. I’d get a to-go cup, right? And I’d fill it with water, because soda would be all sticky, so, no way. But I’d fill it with water and drop the bag of weed inside.”

“Wait, you put—Why did you put water in the cup?” Arthur grimaced. “Why not just use an empty cup? You’ll get your product wet.”

“Well, no, ‘cause it was in a bag. And also, I mean, I didn’t want anyone asking me why I’m bringing an empty to-go cup to one of my tables. That’d be even more suspicious, right? It has to have something _in_ it.”

“You realize you’ve done this in the most obvious, irresponsible way?” Arthur sighed, pulling the car off the main road. Their apartment complex rose on the horizon. “Honestly, you might as well wear a sign that says, ‘I’m selling cannabis’ and carry the bag around on your head.”

“Wait.” Alfred laughed. He turned to Arthur, blue eyes bright with amusement. “Are you seriously scolding me about my method of selling _weed?_ Just when I thought I’d heard every single lecture imaginable… Gotta say, Artie, this is a new one.”

“Listen to me, Alfred.”

“Oh, here we go.” Alfred rolled his eyes toward the window. Shadows swallowed the car as they delved into their designated parking structure. The Beatles serenaded them with a familiar melody Alfred couldn't place the name of. Then, the engine cut, and all was thrown into silence. Arthur twisted audibly in his seat and waited until Alfred looked his way. Then, he spoke, as quiet as the silence itself.

“Alfred. If you’re going to be selling this...” Arthur’s eyes locked on his, flashing green. All at once, Alfred understood something he hadn’t considered before. This was not a lecture. He was not being reprimanded. This was something else entirely. Confusion mixed with anticipation; both fueled the drum of Alfred’s heart.

Arthur’s lips barely moved when he said, “We’re going to need a higher quality product.”


	4. Arithmetic

The Old Bear was in today. He sat alone in the corner booth, poring over documents Alfred couldn’t see. Only Raivis ever approached his table, to bring over another bottle of vodka or nod in response to something Ivan said. Everyone else ignored that half of the restaurant; servers and diners alike flocked to the southmost wall. Occasionally, when Ivan rose to move to the back room, or to deliver a file to Toris, people parted before him like water around a smooth stone. Alfred itched to get in his way, just once, but his tables kept him busy. Besides, the air vents on Ivan’s side of the building must have broken recently, because it was _cold._

Alfred craned his neck to watch Ivan pass, too far away to make an impression. He bumped into the table he was supposed to be serving and set down a bowl of soup without looking. His eyes followed Ivan through a doorway that was almost too short for him. Padded muscle shifted beneath his coat, and his pants fit tight around his waist, and Alfred pondered those details until the tails of his scarf vanished from sight.

“Dude,” Alfred marveled. “Isn’t he hot?”

“Isn’t he your boss?” Matthew scraped his spoon idly against the side of his bowl. Alfred grinned, and his gaze found its way back to his twin.

“You say that like the two are mutually exclusive.” He busied himself by stacking Matthew’s empty dishes, careful not to drip anything on his homework. Matthew gathered his textbook and laptop in closer anyway. “Come on, you can’t tell me you’ve never had a crush on one of your coaches or a professor or something like that.”

“So, you have a crush on your boss?”

Alfred paused in the middle of pouring a fresh drink. “What? No. Dude, you’re putting words in my mouth. Just—One sec.” He ducked his head into the neighboring set of booths. “Refills?” Ice clinked together as he catered to those who nodded. When he finished, he leaned a hip against Matthew’s table and set aside his pitcher. Matthew rushed to save his notebooks from the growing puddle of condensation.

“Anyway, yeah. No. I don’t… It’s not a _crush_. It’s just like… You ever see a really hot celebrity? I mean, you like those Canadian actors, yeah? The ones with the flowy hair? And you know you’d never actually go out with them or get to bang them or anything, but it’s still fun to think about.”

Without looking up from a block of text titled _Classical Theories of Psychology_ , Matthew said, “How often do you fantasize about ‘banging’ your boss?”

“Okay, we’re dropping this. Forget I said anything, _Doctor_ Jones.” Alfred smiled, good-natured, and retrieved his pitcher and tray. “Besides, I gotta go check on this other table. They’re not as low maintenance as you, y’know.”

“Yeah, you should get back to work,” Matthew agreed, thumbing to a new section of his book. “Your hot boss is watching.”

“ _What?_ ” Alfred whirled, searching for a glimpse of silver-beige locks. Matthew giggled softly behind him. He turned again and slugged his brother’s arm. “Jackass. Don’t false alarm me like that. I’ll be right back.”

Alfred still looked over his shoulder when he stepped back on the floor. He knew Ivan wasn’t watching, he would have noticed him come out of that back room, but even so… Alfred’s eyes lingered on the empty doorway near the bar. He knew what was back there: A whole lot of nothing. But now, there was a whole lot of nothing _plus Ivan,_ which lent the space a new aura of attraction.

Less attractive was the string of Italian curses that reminded Alfred where he was supposed to be. He snapped his smile back into place and followed that voice to an occupied table. A veil of tension blanketed all four pairs of shoulders. Alfred hesitated a few paces back and listened.

“…saying, your little family’s been getting _pretty_ stingy when it comes to our borders.” Antonio speared a grape with his toothpick and leveled pleasant green eyes across the table. “What’re we gonna do about that, _amigo?_ ”

“With all due respect,” Toris began, tucking loose strands of hair behind his ear. “I really don’t know how you can call us ‘stingy’ when you yourself have been racking up quite a debt with us these past months.”

Antonio breathed a laugh, seeking support from the Vargas brother at his side. Mildly, he began, “I know I owe money—”

“He _knows_ he owes money.” Lovino lurched forward, elbows slamming on the tabletop. “Now, do you wanna stop busting our balls about it? Eh?” He slumped back in the booth, flicking his hat down over his brow. “He’ll pay. You understand? He’s good for it. We’ve always been good for it.”

Toris smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “In the meantime, I’m sure _you_ understand why we have to push our boundaries a bit, to make up for the revenue you’ve withheld from us.”

“What’s the big idea here? Huh? You’re expanding your territory. Recruiting more lackeys to your motherfucking bratva. Raising your prices on supplies we used to get for _free._ We had a trade agreement! But now, oh, hey, our shit isn’t good enough for you.” Lovino sneered. He dug into his vest for a cigar, but Antonio caught his hand, pointed out the _No Smoking_ sign, and Lovino tucked it away, cursing. “You know, half your newbies aren’t even _Russian_. What happened to keeping it in the family, huh?”

Eduard pushed up his glasses. The glint of light on the lenses drew attention to him. He indicated Antonio and said, “And this one? He’s Italian?”

Antonio raised his brows. Disbelief curled his lips into an open-mouthed smile. “Well, you know, historically—”

“ _Chiudi il becco._ You kidding me? You don’t dignify that disrespect with a response.” Lovino’s eyes darkened when he clutched Antonio’s sleeve. “You don’t owe these bastards an explanation. You owe them a goddamn skull-busting.”

“Okay!” Alfred stepped forward, grinning so hard it hurt his face. “We thinking about any more soup tonight? Dessert? I’d recommend a slice of the vatrushka. It sounds complicated, but it’s basically just cake. I swear you won’t be disappointed.”

Lovino’s eyes crept from Eduard’s face, to Toris’, to Alfred’s and _stayed_. Alfred felt his stomach clench around a knot of apprehension. He tried to smile wider, but couldn’t, and a muscle strained in his jaw. Then, as though Lovino didn’t realize he could kill with looks alone, he opened his mouth to deal the final blow.

“Make it two slices.” Antonio spoke first. His hand came down on Lovino’s shoulder, hard, and Lovino shook it off before turning back to his original company. Antonio’s smile distracted from the menace in Lovino’s scowl. “ _Por favor._ ”

“Sure. Coming right up.” He jotted down the order with great care. He never wanted to forget a request from _these_ customers. “Toris? You want anything?”

“Oh. Um. Yes. Another drink. That’s fine. Thank you.” Toris smiled belatedly.

“More medovu… Me-do-vuk-ha?” Alfred cocked his head. “I don’t really know how to pronounce that. Medovukha? Yeah? Right on. Ed?”

Eduard shook his head, some unreadable emotion flickering behind his glasses. “No thank you.”

“Here’s some water, at least.” Alfred winked as he poured. Lovino clicked his tongue, impatient. Alfred almost ignored the sound until Toris placed a hand on his forearm.

“Thank you, Alfred.” Toris smiled too tightly and squeezed before letting him go. Alfred took the hint.

“I’ll just leave this with you guys, then.” He set down his pitcher, smiling vacantly at each of the diners. Then, before Lovino could comment, Alfred stumbled off toward the kitchen.

And collided with a solid wall of flesh.

“Whoa, my bad. Pardon—”

Alfred scrambled to catch his tray of dishes. Two heavy hands fell on his shoulders, drawing his attention _up._ His voice caught. There was Ivan, the Old Bear, with a faint crease in his brow and his mouth thinned in a hard line. He steered Alfred out of his way and kept walking. A scent like cigarette smoke and wintertime went with him.

“Pardon me!” Alfred called. Cold imprints lingered on his shoulders. He brushed one away, absently, and watched the hem of Ivan’s coat swirl around his ankles. He blinked, noticed someone looking at him from the corner of his eye. Matthew. He flashed a quick grin, gestured to the kitchen, and continued in that direction before his brother could say what he so clearly wanted to.

What did Matthew know anyway?

Alfred stopped at the computer station outside the kitchen doors. He set down his tray of dishes, fished through his breast pocket for his server ID card, swiped it, and swiped it again when it didn’t work the first time. He rang in two vatrushka, then a third because, hey, he was feeling generous. His generosity had nothing to do with it when he voided the charge for that table’s meal. It was another lesson he’d learned from his coworkers: The men in dark suits tipped well, sure, but they tipped _better_ when they didn’t have to blow any money on a bill.

A low beeping at the computer next to him caught his attention. “Hey, Feliks. How’s the dinner shift treating ya?”

“Oh my god.” Feliks startled, a manicured hand flying over his chest. “Al, you cannot sneak up on me like that. My anxiety is, like, off the charts right now. I’m not kidding.”

“Yo, I’m sorry.” Alfred propped a hip against the computer stand and crossed his arms. “Anything I can do to help out?” He almost regretted the offer, but the appreciation in Feliks’ eyes made it worth it.

“Okay, can you just, like, figure out this math shit?” Feliks took a wide step back from the computer and wiped his hands on his apron, as though the technology had sullied him somehow. “These people want to split the bill a million different ways and there’s _no_ preset option for the way they want to do it. That means I have to divide up the numbers myself and enter everything manually and I’m _losing my grip_ here, Al, seriously.”

“Alright, well, let’s try to hang on a little tighter, huh? Lemme see what you’ve got.” Alfred took Feliks’ place in front of the screen. He glanced at the crumpled, ink-damp notes scattered over the keyboard. Once he’d deciphered Feliks’ handwriting—Was that cursive?—the hardest part was over. He nodded. “Easy enough. I’ll take care of this for ya, if you wouldn’t mind breaking into the bar for me? I need another bottle of that med… That honey-flavored mead stuff, and Eduard’s busy.”

“Like, the medovukha? Honestly, could you _be_ any more American? You can’t pronounce half the words on the freaking menu, can you?” Feliks rolled his eyes, unclipping a set of keys from his waist. “I say that lovingly. I can totally help you out, babe. But you’ve _got_ to tell your clone over there to quit, like, staring at me every time I walk by. It’s creepy.”

“Mattie?” Alfred glanced at Matthew’s booth, where his brother was engrossed in a textbook. “Uh, yeah, I really don’t think—”

“You can stop there.” Feliks’ nose crinkled playfully when he added, “We know you don’t.” And he strode off toward the bar.

Alfred let out a low whistle, shaking his head. This place was full of characters, that much was certain. Then again, it was better than his old job, sitting in a call center for twelve hours a day at some obscure banking company. At the very least, he had gained some experience dealing with numbers. He returned his attention to the task at hand. His lips moved silently around different figures and equations. Blue light from the computer screen reflected off his glasses, and he smiled to himself when he realized he must look like one of those hacker heroes in a spy film. He never should have given up on coding. If only Kiku Honda could see him now. Maybe it wasn’t too late for them to continue their lessons together.

“Here’s your medovukha, nerd.” Feliks offered out the bottle, pulled it back when Alfred reached for it, then laughed and gave it to him for real. “You figure out that bill for me?”

“Sure did. Looks like you’ll be getting a fat tip from it too, even if they only do fifteen percent.” Alfred stood proudly aside while Feliks studied the receipt. Half-jokingly, he added, “I should make you split some of it with me, for helping you out.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize Superman upped his prices these days.” Feliks rolled his eyes, printed his receipt, and set off toward his table. His single pigtail bounced while he walked. “How about you grab this dessert from the window and earn your own tips?”

Alfred snorted, dropping his hands to slap against his thighs. He spoke to himself when he said, “Yeah. I should do that. Shit.”

He loaded three pastries onto the tray, then started back to his table. He couldn’t be sure, from so far away, but it didn’t look like the four were arguing anymore. A relative calm even misted over Lovino; although, that might have had something to do with—

“You’re kidding me.” Alfred scoffed as he read the _No Smoking_ sign through a cloud of grey. Sure enough, a thick cigar rested between Lovino Vargas’s ringed fingers. It glowed brightly when he brought it to his lips. Behind him, a family with three kids sat enjoying their dinner. Alfred bit his lip, hard. “Bullshit.”

He made a beeline for the back of the restaurant. The section leading to that final booth sat empty. While Alfred walked, he shifted his tray to his opposite arm and wondered—Was he doing this because he really gave _that_ much of a shit about the rules? Or was he just eager to start a conversation with the Old Bear that wouldn’t be blatantly ignored? He set his tray on Ivan’s table with a clatter. The other man finished reading a passage of text in front of him before looking up. Alfred was struck again by the purple dusk captured in his gaze.

“Hey.” Alfred said. He cut a hand behind him, aimless, and snorted another laugh. “You see that? Like, are they _supposed_ to be smoking at that table over there?”

Ivan’s eyes drifted somewhere over Alfred’s shoulder. He sucked at his own cigarette with an audible intake of air. Smoke hissed between his teeth before he met Alfred’s face again. “What?”

“I’m just saying,” Alfred hesitated and quickly found a second surge of passion. “I know you allow smoking over here, in this booth. Okay? You allow that, for game nights or whatever. But Lovino over there?” He nodded in the Italian’s direction. “He’s smoking on the _main floor_ , in front of everyone. Kids, even. Totally disrespectful.”

Ivan regarded Alfred coolly. A long sigh of smoke spiraled from his lips. Finally, he settled more comfortably in his seat, took another drag, and said, “Why are you telling me this?”

Alfred faltered. He grasped at fleeting justifications before offering a jumbled, “You’re the…boss?”

Ivan hummed, somewhere deep in his chest. He tapped out some ash on the edge of a crystal tray, watching the embers sizzle into black. “If someone is giving you a problem, you go over there and you tell him to stop.”

“I’ve tried before but, I—” Alfred looked over his own shoulder, hesitated. “Look, I just don’t think I wanna be the one to break the news to him, you feel me?”

“Ah.” One corner of Ivan’s mouth twitched upward. It was like he’d just heard the explanation to a joke that wasn’t very funny, but he was glad he understood the punchline nonetheless. “A cowardly hero. I cannot say I’ve seen this type before.”

Alfred drew up rigid. “Dude. Boss. I’m not _scared_ of them, m’kay? I just feel like, you know, this is your establishment, and if you have a rule, you should be _informed_ when—” 

“Don’t be a rat, Alfred.” Ivan spoke simply, with a voice like liquid velvet. He started to raise his cigarette again, when another thought gripped him. His eyes fell back on Alfred’s. “Unless…that is your hero name? Rat Man? No… Rat _boy_.”

“I… Sir.” Alfred’s brow furrowed. Because he couldn’t place that little smirk on Ivan’s face. Because he’d never called anyone ‘sir’ that seriously in his _life_. Maybe his dad, once, when he was little and watching too much TV. He shifted his weight. Then, as he flicked his attention between cool, lavender eyes, he smiled. “The rat and the bear, huh? Sounds like a fairytale. Those usually have a happy ending, you know.”

Maybe it was because Alfred’s eyes glittered so brightly behind his frames. Maybe it was the hopeful chime in his voice. Whatever it was, it made Ivan smile a small, lopsided smile. It only lasted a second.

“You want a happy ending?” Ivan asked, training his expression back to neutrality. He nodded over Alfred’s shoulder. “Let the man smoke in peace. You are better off.”

“But…” Alfred tracked Ivan’s nod. Lovino was on his feet now, talking animatedly with both hands. “Doesn’t that make you look less credible or something? Like a pushover? I mean, if they can get away with small shit—Er, stuff, sorry—like this, it’s only a matter of time before they start taking advantage of you in other ways. Right?”

A sliver of white peeked from the corner of Ivan’s mouth. “You will learn for yourself which rules are the most important to enforce. But you should count your teeth, too. Decide how many of them are worth losing along the way.”

Alfred pursed his lips. His tongue pondered the hard ridges of his molars, canines. He laughed through his nose. “I like all my teeth.”

“Then do not risk your precious _Hollywood smile_.” Ivan snuffed his cigarette with a shrug. But something about what he said, the way he said it…

Alfred smiled, sardonic. “Are you patronizing me?”

“Why would I do that,” Ivan asked with a tilt of the head, “like I have something to prove?”

Alfred held his gaze. Something hot trickled in his veins. Pride, maybe. Indignation. Ivan sat perfectly still. _Like a doll,_ Alfred thought, and looked to see if he was even breathing. He followed the deep contours etched into Ivan’s shirt, the broad planes of muscle and fat that padded his chest. They rose and fell on slow, subtle breaths. And, still, the only thing Alfred could think as he sized the man up was— _I could take him in a fight._

He blinked the thought away.

“Yeah, well, sorry to bother you,” Alfred mumbled. He picked up his tray, turned, and started in the other direction. Ivan’s voice caught him.

“I have upset you.”

Alfred drew up short. He licked his lips and spoke over his shoulder, slowly. “No. The cake’s just getting stale.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, not that he thought he’d receive one. It wasn’t even that Ivan had angered him. Not really. It was just— _Lovino_. With his insults and his cruel laughter and the way he talked down to Alfred and threw his weed at him like he was an animal. Bundles of crushed pride flared up inside him. He knew he couldn’t do much about it, usually; Lovino wore a dark suit, and Alfred did not. Even now, his boss discouraged him from retaliating, despite that he was _totally in the right._ But, if the only satisfaction Alfred could get was by making Lovino put out his stupid cigar in _his_ place of business, then goddammit, Alfred didn’t care _what_ clothes the guy wore. He counted his teeth and approached.

“…to go there? Huh? Okay, alright, we will address this.” Lovino blew a long stream of smoke over a shoulder that shook with agitation. He made a poor attempt to compose himself, then listed halfway over the table. “You and your little _banditti_ got a lot of balls taking _our money_ from under our noses.”

Toris and Eduard exchanged a glance. They didn’t look worried—Far from it—but they weren’t thrilled either. Toris opened his mouth to speak. Lovino didn’t let him.

“Oh, oh yes! Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Did you?” Lovino muttered under his breath, took another drag, and went on narrating with his hands. “You, accepting our product and _inflating the price._ You distribute it for almost double our agreed-upon price. And that’s good, that’s good, I have to hand it to you. But the thing that _disgusts_ me?” Lovino’s lip curled, and Alfred thought he might spit on his audience right there. “The thing I find _revolting_ is that you sons of bitches…didn’t even _tell us_ you were selling for more. We have not been getting our full percentage. Not. At. All.”

Toris’ mouth closed. He looked patiently at Antonio, who was building a house of napkins and straws. It took a moment for him to notice the silence and glance up.

“What are you looking at me for?” Antonio nodded at his partner and collapsed the disposable structure between his palms. “He’s right.”

“ _Sì,_ and I thought Russians liked sharing the wealth.” Lovino scoffed around another puff of smoke. “Times are different now, I guess.”

No one paid Alfred attention when he stepped forward, positioning a few serving plates on the table. When he leaned down to place the dessert, a foul stream of smoke blasted into his face. He coughed against gritted teeth. His eyes flashed on the glow of Lovino’s cigar.

“Sir.” Alfred cleared his throat. He’d resorted to formalities once tonight; he might as well keep up the habit. “Excuse me. Sir.”

“I’m very sorry for your grievance.” Toris spoke up, his words soft and well-rehearsed. “I’ll be sure to discuss it with our boss. He’s quite busy, so I would expect to hear back sometime next week.”

“Bring it up with the boss, eh?” Lovino sucked on his cigar, and more smoke spilled from his lips in an uncontrolled haze. His eyes wandered over the table, dark as the wood that crafted it. Then, he snatched up Toris’ wine glass and smashed it against Eduard’s. Both exploded in a hailstorm of glass. Stunned silence followed. Lovino broke that, too. “You’re gonna listen to me _now_ , how about that?”

“ _Dude._ ” Just like that, Alfred’s formalities dropped. He hovered between two courses of action: Finding something to clean up the glass, and tossing Lovino out of the diner like a bouncer at a disreputable nightclub. Every muscle locked, suspended between his choices.

“Everyone clean the shit out of their ears, or am I gonna have to start cracking skulls next?” Lovino demanded. Beside him, Antonio laughed. Lovino noticed and a smirk colored his features. Then, Eduard shifted, and brown eyes locked on him instead. “You got something to say to me? Better make it sweet.”

“Since we’re talking about things that disgust us…” Eduard picked some glass from his lap and flicked it onto the table, looking pensive. “I am _appalled_ by the way you do business. If it can be called business. You don’t pay your dues, and you refuse to accept your consequences. Even when they are very _generous_ consequences. Lovino. You’re sloppy.”

“Now, it is _not_ me who—”

“The people you choose to do business with,” Eduard interrupted calmly, pointedly, “are sloppy.” He sighed and wiped his glasses with the edge of his tie. “Honestly, you act like _we’re_ the ones causing you trouble, when your real problem is… Well.” His eyes flicked to Antonio, who was beginning to rise from his seat. “Really, Lovino, I won’t tell you how to do your job, but if I made the mistake of recruiting someone careless, I’d at least have the nerve to take him out back and—”

“Gut him like a fucking pig?” Lovino sneered around his cigar. There was a moment of peace as he took in a fresh lungful of smoke and blew it over Antonio’s head. Then, he pitched forward, grabbed Toris, and hauled him onto the table. “Is that what you want me to do? You want me to carve up my fucking partner, Eddie? Or are you bastards already thinking of handling that for me?”

“Hey, what the _fuck?_ ” Alfred sprung forward, adrenaline buzzing around his ears. He felt a wash of vertigo, and when it passed, Antonio was wrenching him back by the scruff of his collar.

“Take a walk, little guy,” Antonio said, and _shoved_. Alfred caught himself against an adjacent table. He glanced around, heart racing, and found that _no one else was paying attention_. And how? How could this be happening? One couple was chatting with Raivis behind the front desk. Another family ate their meals with their heads bowed, eyes averted. No one was doing _anything._

“You want me to cut up my partner, Eddie?” Lovino snarled. He shook Toris by the throat, and Eduard looked on with thinly veiled horror. “Think it would make my life easier? Do ya, Eddie? _Cazzate_. How ‘bout I cut yours instead? I owe you so many debts, right? How about I pay you this one, since partners are _such_ a fucking _liability._ ”

Toris didn’t make a sound as his knees raked through shards of glass. His face betrayed no emotion—Not even when he saw the knife.

The sudden flash of steel triggered a different response from Alfred. He cried out, hands flying instinctively to his belt. He kept his own knife there, there, _somewhere_ , but his fingers kept scrambling and coming up empty and he kept sucking up smoke in hitched little breaths and all he could think to yell was, “Vargas, put out that _fucking cigar_.”

Lovino did a doubletake, as though he couldn’t believe Alfred was stupid enough to stick around. _Yeah well, surprise,_ Alfred thought, and he rushed forward. Lovino cracked a laugh, waving his cigar in front of him.

“This? Hey, you want me to put this out?” He clicked his tongue and nodded. Toris braced himself more securely on the table. “ _Bene, bene…_ I’ll put it out.”

For a long moment, nothing happened. Antonio stood firmly at Lovino’s side. Eduard floated halfway between sitting and standing. Toris’ throat moved, almost imperceptible, beneath his collar. Suddenly, Lovino’s lips curled over too-white teeth, and he pushed the burning end of his cigar under Toris’ jaw.

Toris _did_ make noise, then, even if it was muffled.

Alfred’s blood froze over, pooling in his feet. That didn’t stop him from lunging. It certainly didn’t stop him from barreling into Antonio, when the shorter man moved to intercept him. Nor did it stop him from decking the guy in the _temple,_ though it might have prevented Alfred from knocking him unconscious. He wasn’t on top of his game. But then it didn’t matter, because an icy presence entered the scene, and the voice that accompanied it was even colder.

“What is the problem here?”

Alfred’s breath snagged. He untangled himself from Antonio, who appeared just as eager to separate. Eduard rose to his full height. Something flickered beneath the dark smudge of Lovino’s lashes. He breathed hard through parted lips. One by one, he unfurled his fingers from Toris’ shirt, and retreated. His attention snapped to their newest arrival, face blanching with distrust. At last, Alfred turned, tilting his head back to meet Ivan’s eyes. They were the only part of him not smiling.

“We were talking money, big man,” Lovino said, glowering. “Strictly business, as always.”

“I see. So, you are discussing the hundreds of thousands of dollars that your syndicate owes to me?” Ivan steepled his fingers under his chin. A rosy glow pooled in the center of his otherwise pale cheeks. It made him look younger, but it also made Alfred wonder: _What has his blood pumping so warm?_

Ivan tapped a cigarette out of its carton, lit it, before continuing. “I am tired of talking about it, personally. Very soon, I think you will be too.”

Lovino watched the smoke streaming from Ivan’s hand. He glanced at his own useless cigar and discarded it before hooking his fingers in his pocket. His free hand thumbed the side of his nose. Antonio took notice, tried touching his back, and got elbowed away.

“We’re more than happy to host the next meeting, _viejo._ ” Antonio offered. “We have a nice little section in the back of our own restaurant, surrounded by these adorable potted plants. _Very_ private—”

“No.” Lovino cut a hand over Antonio’s chest. “You let me do the talking.” A beat, before Lovino stepped forward. He watched Ivan’s cigarette warily. Behind him, Toris rubbed his burn. “Look. We have the money for you. You understand me? We’re making it _right now_. Not to mention the profits you’ve already robbed from us, but that can be forgiven. All’s I’m saying is, you think you could stop riding our dicks about this? It’s interfering with business.”

“‘Interfering with business…’” Ivan mused around his cigarette. He slipped another from its package and lit that one too. He held it out to Lovino, who recoiled. Ivan stayed still; the only thing that moved was his mouth, which quirked around the edges. Lovino hissed a curse, reached out, retreated, then snatched the cigarette from Ivan’s fingers. The taller man looked satisfied when he said, “Personal matters always do.”

Lovino’s focus startled away from his cigarette. He gritted his teeth around the paper filter. “So, it’s personal now?”

Ivan didn’t answer. His gaze shifted to Toris’ jaw, the blistering skin there. His lips didn’t move when he said, “You two will be showing yourselves out.”

At first, neither Lovino nor Antonio moved. Lovino let his cigarette burn, forgotten between clenched teeth. Antonio brushed a piece of fallen ash off Lovino’s pantleg. Then, Ivan’s smile grew wider, softer, and ice moved through Alfred’s gut. Antonio was the first to shift.

“ _Vamos, querido_.” He nodded at the exit and offered a hand. “We’ve said our piece.”

Lovino’s expression soured. He looked around at all the men that surrounded him. Finally, he shoved past Antonio’s open arm. “Jerk bastard. You’re supposed to back me up.” He turned once he’d put some distance between himself and Ivan. It was then that Alfred noticed, all the tables between them had emptied. “Wait ‘til we’re on my turf, old bastard.”

“Keep shirking your payments,” Ivan said, “and I will make sure you have no turf left to speak of.”

Lovino spun on a polished heel. He gestured sharply, and Antonio followed, looking unsure of what to do with his hands. He used one to hold open the front door. Then it closed again, and the two were gone.

“I am very sorry you had to witness such rudeness from my associates.” Ivan’s voice cleared the fog from Alfred’s mind. He blinked the older man into view, noticed the way he kneaded his temple as a grimness overtook his former smile. “It is embarrassing.”

“Yeah. No, it’s…” Alfred shrugged and shuffled closer to Toris. “Yo, Toris, you good? I think a, uh, cool compress should help with that.” He nodded awkwardly to the fresh blossom of raw skin and fought to remember some of Arthur’s medical remedies. “Oh, and aloe vera. Um. Honey, too. Something about…anti-bacterial…somethin’.”

Toris waited for him to trail off, then offered a placid smile, like he’d been practicing it all his life. “It’s nothing, Alfred. Battle wounds.”

“That should not have happened to you.” Ivan sucked on his cigarette. His gaze was distant, like he was seeing somewhere else.

Toris looked taken aback. He touched his burn, flustered. “Oh, boss, really, I appreciate your concern, but it was my fault—”

“I know.” Ivan looked at him. “It should not happen again.”

Toris faltered. Eduard came to his side, gestured silently for them to go. Alfred watched them, even as the injustice of it all crept over him. It wasn’t Toris’ fault. It was Lovino’s, for being a crazy, violent jerk. Or Antonio’s, for not reeling in his partner when things got out of hand. Or maybe it was a little bit Alfred’s fault, for not coming to the rescue fast enough. Regardless of who was to blame, it wasn’t _Toris_. Alfred nearly said as much, when a bundle of cash was pressed into his palm.

“They should have tipped you.” Ivan withdrew his hand so fluidly, Alfred had to wonder if it ever touched his in the first place. Only the phantom chill of his skin remained, to assure him. “Clean up this glass.”

Alfred rifled through the bills with one hand. He did a quick count in his head. _Twenty, forty, sixty…_ Five hundred dollars folded in his possession. His fist spasmed around it. The last rays of sunlight filtered through the windows, and the whole space brightened. Alfred hitched a laugh. His sinuses stung, all of a sudden.

“Holy _shit_ , thank—” By the time he looked up, Ivan had gone. He closed his mouth and flicked his nail against the wadded cash, just like he’d seen Ivan do with his playing cards. _Thwick, thwick, thwick._ He tucked it into his apron and went to fetch the broom.

“ _Al._ What were you thinking?” Matthew piped up when Alfred passed him. His face was harried and pale behind his glasses. He held his books to his chest, and Alfred was only surprised he couldn’t hear his twin’s heart slamming against them. “I thought you were about to get stabbed.”

“Yeah? Well. Have faith, brother.” Alfred shrugged, switching the broom handle to his other palm. He grinned. “Besides, dude, it’s all worth it.” He leaned in close, glancing over either shoulder, as though whoever overheard him might retract his pay. “We’re _rich_.”

“I saw him give you that money,” Matthew said, almost guiltily. He leaned in to bridge the gap between them, as if on instinct. “How much is it?”

Alfred’s grin crept wider, irrepressible, as the confirmation passed his lips. “Five. Hundred. Dollars.”

Matthew’s eyes filled their rounded frames. “I, you, what— _Alfred._ ”

“Breaking out the full name. That impressive, huh?”

Matthew edged inward. His skin blanched further, revealing every spatter of freckles on his cheeks and nose. “You can’t _keep_ that.”

“Uh, dude’s got it to give. So, like, watch me.” Alfred plucked the money out of sight, back into his apron, before Matthew’s protests could turn physical.

“Al, I’m just saying…” Matthew shrank in his seat, picking at the cover of his textbook rental. His eyes flicked to Alfred’s, reflecting a very familiar, very vibrant blue. “Be careful. Okay? I don’t know much about your boss but, from the look of things, he isn’t…someone you want to owe a debt to.”

“Debt?” Alfred propped the broom under his arm, leaning on it while he laughed. “There isn’t any debt, dude. Okay? It’s a tip. It's my pay.”

“Yeah, well…” Matthew shuffled his belongings into his lap and shook his head. “That’s _my_ tip for you. Also?” His voice dropped low, somehow lower than usual, until Alfred had to strain to hear. “Consider finding a new job, maybe.”

“It’s not usually like this,” Alfred said, immediate, dismissive. He found he didn't mind the jitter in his pulse. Quite the opposite, actually. “Anyway, I gotta clean up some broken glass so… _Zdrastvuyte_ , motherfucker.”

Matthew sighed when Alfred got up, waved, and headed off. He just barely heard his brother say, “That means _hello_ ,” before he was out of earshot, left to entertain a thousand other thoughts.

He had been _involved_ in something today. He wasn’t sure what, exactly; just that his heart was still pounding and excitement spilled through his blood like ecstasy. He replayed bits of conversation in his head, while glass tinkled softy under his broom. Antonio owed Ivan money. How much, Alfred wondered. And for what? Not restaurant business, surely. Then there was the thing Lovino said about _distributing product._ That made perfect sense to Alfred. He had a product of his own, after all; although, he felt certain Lovino Vargas was not talking about petty weed sales. No one dragged another guy onto a table and burned him with a cigar over _weed_. Then again—

“Shit.” Alfred dropped his broom. The sun was setting. Matthew had already gone. Their bus would arrive in fifteen minutes. And Arthur was going to want to burn _him_ if his negligence cost them any of their new product.

Swiftly, he dumped a scatter of glass in the trash and snatched his apron off his hips. His eyes already ached with the stark memory of LED lights. He was getting used to them. He had to, for business’ sake.

Tonight, it was his turn to tend their new garden.


	5. Turf

Botany. Alfred was pretty sure that was the name for it. He liked how it sounded. _Botany._ Like he was some kind of scientist who’d dedicated years of his life to this single craft. Botany… It had a much better ring to it than “growing weed in your bedroom closet so you can afford to pay rent.”

“Okay. There you go, little dudes.” He sat back on his heels and wiped his forehead, smearing grime. His knees ached from kneeling, and soil dampened his pants. So, he’d had a spill. Nothing extreme, if you asked him; of course, Arthur had a different idea about what constituted a “severe accident.” Alfred heard him fretting as he entered the bedroom.

“Here. A broom and dustpan.” Arthur thrust the utensils into Alfred’s lap. “I’m not sure how familiar you are with these inventions, but I think you’ll find them quite useful.”

“Gee, I’ve never seen anything like this before.” Alfred marveled at the broom in his hand. “So, what, I just…sweep this up? Like, I can just _do_ that? That’s allowed?”

“Alright, yes, the joke has passed—”

“I mean, personally, I always thought it was illegal to clean unless it was your profession. Like, a maid or something.” Alfred’s eyes widened, big and blue, behind his glasses. “I guess that’s why I always sort of admired you. You’re _always_ cleaning, even without a permit and that’s, wow. That’s just crazy to me.”

“ _Alfred._ ”

He perked up at the lash of Arthur’s tone. “Yeah?”

“Just, please,” Arthur closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He gestured smoothly with his free hand. “Clean up your mess.”

“On it, dude.” Alfred smiled to himself while he worked. Sometimes, Arthur’s scoffs and groans of exasperation made everything worth the effort. When he finished filling the dustpan with dirt, he flicked off his rubber gloves and looked back at Arthur. “Hey, I don’t think I ever asked but, where did you get your weed before? Before we were growing our own, I mean.”

Arthur sat still a moment, eyes fixed on the center of Alfred’s forehead. He was studying the black smudge there, Alfred knew, and his hand twitched like he could hardly stop himself from wiping it away. Alfred drew his own hand across his brow again, smearing the dirt further. He smiled innocently and Arthur blinked before turning away.

“Some blonde boy with ridiculously spiked hair.” Arthur stood and his attention narrowed on a collection of plastic bottles. He unscrewed the lids and started taking measurements of their contents. “Honestly, you’d think he’s trying to pick up a radio signal.”

Alfred laughed. “Jeez, I hope you don’t talk about _me_ like that, when I’m not around.”

“You act like I haven’t already said this to his face, on multiple occasions.”

Arthur worked while he talked, and the conversation didn’t distract him for an instant. In a way, it was mesmerizing, watching him work. Each of his movements was deliberate, almost mechanical in its purpose. He squinted as he mixed nitrogen and phosphorous and some other nutrients Alfred couldn’t remember. If anyone here was a true botanist or scientist or _whatever_ , it was Arthur Kirkland.

“Aha. Here we are.” Arthur hooked a pinky under the trigger of the spray bottle and offered it to Alfred. “A perfect feeding solution. As always.”

“Dude,” Alfred accepted the bottle with a grin. “You’re awesome at this whole chemistry thing.”

“Oh, I _know_ , and here I am wasting my talent on cannabis.” Arthur sighed and crouched down next to him. “It’s a shame, really. I _should_ be cooking meth.”

Alfred laughed again. Things between them were almost comfortable, like this. It was nice. That was, except for those little moments when Alfred caught Arthur _gazing_ at him. It only ever lasted a second, something he caught out of the corner of his eye, but it was happening _right_ _now_ and… Alfred’s smile faltered. He turned his back fully before moving to water the plants.

“Ah,” Arthur cleared his throat, stopping Alfred mid-motion. “Before you do, let me check something.”

Arthur leaned forward, rubbing a finger over one of the leaves. That was all he did: Rub. He didn’t stroke, or pet, or caress the plant like Alfred had seen some gardeners do. He just poked and prodded and _examined_ with an air of practical efficiency. Alfred supposed that was the difference between a botanist and a florist: A florist loved his plants. A botanist only studied them.

“Right. You can start watering them more from here on out.” Arthur put his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet.

“I don’t get it.” Alfred idly thumbed one of the taller leaves. “Why don’t we just start off feeding them more to begin with, so they grow bigger?”

“Alfred, it is almost _always_ worse to overfeed your plants than it is to underfeed them.” Arthur returned with a little thermometer— _It measures PH balance in the soil—_ and waited. So, Alfred started to spritz the plants with a bit more water than usual. Arthur stopped him almost immediately. “Not that much. My god. Let me show you.”

Alfred dropped the spray bottle with a roll of his eyes. Arthur caught it out of the air and picked up where Alfred left off.

“Watch me, Al. You must be extremely attentive if you want this batch to turn out as good as our last one. Are you paying attention?”

Alfred gave a noncommittal hum, then followed it with, “Our last batch _was_ pretty good, huh.”

“It was _very_ good.” Arthur’s smile sounded in his voice. “I believe we can start increasing our prices. In fact, we may _have_ to if we don’t want to sell out prematurely again.”

“Are you sure you weren’t just smoking up all of our product when I wasn’t looking?” Alfred teased. Arthur turned and sprayed his face with water. Alfred laughed and took off his glasses to wipe the droplets away.

“As tempting as that may _be_ ,” Arthur began, “I am a businessman. I’m going to sample our product, naturally, but I won’t burn through the whole bloody stock. How unprofessional would that be?”

“I think you’re taking this a little too seriously.” Alfred’s own smile returned.

“And, as always, you’re not taking it seriously _enough_. You’re the one in direct contact with our buyers, after all. _I_ won’t have to deal with angry customers whose standards of excellence are not met.”

“Again,” Alfred said, “taking it waaay too seriously.”

Arthur conceded a small smile. “Let me have my bit of fun, will you?”

Alfred snorted softly. “Sure thing, captain.”

They worked in comfortable silence, after that. Alfred checked the fans and opened the windows to allow a steady current of air. Arthur sorted through the greenery and began harvesting the oldest buds. The gentle clipping of scissors maintained a steady rhythm.

Finally, Arthur spoke. “My parents are flying in from England next week, you might be interested to know.”

Alfred paused. He knew Arthur had only seen his parents once since beginning his studies in the U.S. four years prior. He _should_ be happy for him. But this was another one of those situations: Arthur meant more than he was willing to say. Nearly a year ago, they’d planned for Arthur’s parents to visit. So they could meet Alfred. Arthur’s _boyfriend._ Now, though…

“Uh, yeah, that’s interesting.” Alfred sat awkwardly on his bed, watching Arthur’s shoulders move while he trimmed their plants. “I thought they…weren’t coming anymore, though? I mean, since we’re not—”

“Well, yes, but I’m sure they’d still like to meet you.” Arthur spoke quickly, harshly, so his voice alone was sharp enough to sever Alfred’s protest. He softened slightly. “I just figure we can…make arrangements. Lessen the suffering of every party involved. You know.”

“Are you…” Alfred’s brow furrowed, “asking me to pretend to date you?”

“Absolutely not.” Arthur dropped the scissors with a scoff and turned to face him. “ _Pretend_ to date me. How degrading. No. I…suppose I was looking…” His attention flickered back to the scissors, which he retrieved carefully from the floor. “Looking for a bit more authenticity.”

Alfred blinked. “What are you saying to me right now?”

“Authenticity, Alfred. Sincerity. Truth.”

“Yeah, I _know_ the word. Why are you _using_ it?” It was Alfred’s turn to scoff as he shook his head and sank to his knees beside Arthur. Arthur didn’t look at him. “Art. Artie. Listen, I…I don’t really know what to say right now.”

“Don’t say anything.” Arthur’s words were stonier than his expression. He went back to clipping stems. “You gave your answer. It’s done.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too.” Alfred snorted an uncomfortable laugh. In that moment, he would have much preferred Arthur’s gazing. That, at least, was tolerable. “But… I mean, look, I can still meet them. I’m your roommate, I can still—”

“It’s done. Alfred.” A few swift clips of the scissors punctuated his words. “Please. Just forget I suggested anything. It’s embarrassing.”

“Right. Yeah.” Alfred hesitated. “Artie?”

Arthur drew straight suddenly, clutching a plastic bag in his fist. He didn’t look at him when he said, “I’m putting these up to dry. There are some bags ready to go in the medicine cabinet. Sell them for forty each, sixty if it’s a college kid that looks like they have money and poor math skills.”

Alfred shifted his weight. Something had gone a little wrong just now, and money didn’t seem able to fix it. “Won’t I, uh, piss some people off?”

Arthur stopped in the doorway. A cool breeze slithered up the fire escape to muss his hair, but he didn’t bother to fix it. He only stood rigid, fingernails clicking against the brass knob. Then, green eyes settled over his shoulder. Alfred once read somewhere that green was supposed to be a soothing color, that was why doctors wore it during surgery. But now, the green itself dissected him.

“Since when have you ever cared about that?” Arthur asked. And then he left, and Alfred let him.

*

A month ago, Alfred would have thought it _impossible_ to sell an eighth of weed for forty dollars—Let alone sixty. As it turned out, though, Arthur was much better at business than he was at reviving relationships: He produced a quality product, he set realistic prices, and he knew when to bend the rules for a promising deal. Alfred helped, of course. They wouldn’t profit at all if it weren’t for his quick wit and charisma. At least, that was what he told himself.

Nowadays, his customers came in flocks. Even that spikey-haired kid came by to see why Arthur had stopped buying from him, and he’d been a regular customer ever since. A lot of Alfred’s new clients, he didn’t even recognize. He considered that an achievement all by itself.

But he recognized that sportscar.

He paused, watching its deliberate cruise around campus. Heavy clouds reflected in the windshield. They obscured the driver, but Alfred knew who it was. He tugged his jacket shut against an approaching chill. Rain. It would rain soon. Wind stirred around his ankles, kicking litter across the street. Sturdy front tires crunched over a discarded soda can, and stayed.

The headlights came on. They cut through a rising mist to bathe Alfred in scrutiny. His skin glowed pale, and he raised a hand to shield his eyes from the glare. People filtered past him, all faceless and grey. They didn’t seem interested in buying. So, the only thing left was to follow those beams. They drew him to the front of the car like a hangman drawn to his noose. He just barely remembered to smile.

“Howdy.” His voice fell flat against the pavement, alongside the thud of his shoes. He stopped close enough to reach out and touch that sleek black exterior. His hands hooked in his pockets instead. “You looking for another free sample?”

Undefined colors and shapes blurred against the lowering window. Alfred’s reflection became a rippling pool of blonde and blue, and then he was examining a different palette: Dark hair, dark eyes, dark suit.

“Keep your skunk grass, _bambino._ ” Lovino’s lip twitched in displeasure. His gaze flickered to Alfred’s hip. “You made some money today, huh?”

Alfred glanced at the cash sticking out of his pocket. His smile turned to a smirk as he fanned it out for examination. “This? Yeah, I guess. Business was kinda slow today, actually. I usually make more.”

Lovino snorted. “Since when?”

“Since we upped our plant game, dude.” Alfred propped a wrist against the top of the car door and peered inside. Crisp leather interior contained a smoky aroma. Rosary hung from the rearview mirror. The passenger seat was vacant. For the first time since Alfred had met him, Lovino sat alone. Somehow, that didn’t make him feel any safer. “Y’know, it’s amazing what a few fancy lights and some dirt will do.”

Lovino didn’t say anything. He settled back, resting his head against his seat. Silently, he surveyed the scene beyond his window. His fingers tapped a steady beat upon his steering wheel. “Looks like it’s about to rain.”

“Yeah.” Alfred returned his hands to his pockets and tilted his head back. A single drop of water splattered on his cheekbone. He blinked some of the dampness away. “Probably won’t get much more business once it starts. Guess I should get home.”

“Get in. I’ll give you a ride.”

Alfred froze. His brow furrowed without his permission. Instinctively, his eyes moved to the backseats. Also empty, thank god. But why would Lovino, of all people, offer him…? He shrank back in his jacket, even as his smile quirked wider.

“Hey, I appreciate it, but I really don’t mind the walk. It’s, like, my daily exercise, y’know? And I can’t slack off or—”

“Get in the fucking car, eh?” Lovino’s voice cracked like a shock of lightning. He jerked his chin at the seat next to him. Alfred almost obeyed, but his legs didn’t cooperate. His mouth moved on its own.

“Why?”

“ _Why?_ ” Lovino lurched halfway out the car window. He looked like he wanted to drag Alfred through it. His voice dropped to a snarl. “I want to get in my good karma for the day. You get it? So, if I gotta tell you to _get in the goddamn car_ one more time, they’ll be the last words you ever fucking hear.” A pause, as the gravity of Lovino’s threat settled in the surrounding air. He nearly hissed when he said, “Get. In. The. God—”

“ _Okay._ ” Alfred scrambled around the front of the vehicle. Cold perspiration dappled his brow and he wiped it away with a huff. This was fine. He was fine. He popped open the passenger door and climbed inside. His heart thundered louder than the storm on the horizon. He had scarcely opened his mouth before Lovino started driving. “You can take a right up here, past the light.”

“Hm.” Lovino’s window rolled back up, until Alfred was trapped on all sides by tinted glass and black leather. The radio played too low to hear, a somber ballad coasting the edges of perception. After a minute, Lovino spoke.

“I changed my mind. I do want to see it.” He held a hand between them without taking his eyes off the road. “Give it here.”

Alfred’s hand twitched over his pocket. Outside, grey buildings blurred against a greying sky. Headlights streaked past in pairs, blinding him when they grew too close. He blinked the burn from his eyes and clamped his bag of weed into Lovino’s palm.

“Huh.” Lovino’s fingers crumpled around the product. Alfred watched carefully as he brought the bag to his nose and inhaled. Something dark flickered just beneath his skin. “This really is an upgrade, ain’t it. You’re not selling horseshit anymore, are you _culo?_ ”

“I guess.” Alfred’s hand curled around his door handle. He didn’t even want the bag back. He just wanted his pulse to stop skipping. “You can hang onto it, if you want. Like, as a gesture of goodwill. Y’know?”

“Planned on it.” Lovino didn’t look at him when he tucked the bag inside his jacket. Alfred nodded, slowly.

“Sure. No problem.”

He tried to focus on the rumble of music drifting through the speakers. To him, it sounded like a senseless buzz, rushing along with his adrenaline. A familiar street zipped past the corner of his eye. He shifted in his seat.

“Yeah, so actually, you missed your turn. My house is back that way and, it’s okay, you can turn right here instead. Er…” Uncertainty trickled into Alfred’s throat. He turned backwards, watching their exit pass him by. A flurry of panic sharpened his voice. “Lovino, dude, you gotta turn around, you’re not going the right—”

A gun pressed to the side of his head.

“You’re gonna stop talking.”

Alfred stiffened. Every muscle locked, except his heart, which throbbed red behind his eyes. That cool sliver of metal jammed beneath his ear, keeping him still. His breaths came in silent hitches. Slowly, he licked his lips, but that was it.

“A few of my customers have been cutting their demand lately.” Lovino dug the barrel into a tender piece of cartilage and Alfred winced. “They want less of what I have to offer, because they’re ‘making life changes. Going back to more _casual_ use.’ Some of ‘em just don’t have as much money as they used to, because they’re spending it on other goodies. You see what I’m saying?”

“Dude, there’s no freaking way _I’m_ affecting your business.” Alfred’s voice pitched high. He tried retreating from the gun, but Lovino just pinned him between the muzzle and the window. Alfred hissed breath through his teeth and tried again. “ _Lovino_. Think about it, I’m just selling weed to college students. That’s it! My customer pool is so small, and I’m not even distributing the _good shit._ You must have the wrong guy or something, I—”

“Listen to me, motherfucker.” Lovino ground his foot against the gas, and the engine growled. “ _No one else_ sells anything better than shitty, twenty-dollar weed on these streets. Not around here. They know what’s good for them, and they stay away. But you? Hell, you’re a new breed of dumbass. And I don’t think you’re a very quick learner. You need a really _vigorous_ lesson, if you want it to stick.”

The car jerked sideways. Gravel kicked up beneath the tires as it tore into an unfamiliar lot. Alfred gasped, ducking away from the gun, but it followed him. Lovino slammed the brakes, and they lurched to a dizzying halt. Alfred knocked open his door, stumbled, and collided with wet asphalt. He skinned his elbow, lost his glasses along the way, but went back to his feet in an instant. And the gun went back to his skull.

“Ah? Alfred! It’s so good to see you again.”

That voice… It was familiar, _Italian_ , but it didn’t belong to Lovino. Alfred raised his hands and watched as his driver stepped in front of him, thumbing some dust off his cufflinks.

“You’re lucky it’s him holding the gun this time, _culo_.” Lovino twirled his own weapon before securing it in his belt. “I’ve got itchy fingers when I get excited, and you have a real bad habit of _exciting_ me.”

“Feli,” Alfred’s voice sounded in a rush. “Feli, dude, your brother lost his fucking _mind._ Tell him my stupid weed sales aren’t interfering with his business. Tell him that doesn’t even make _sense—_ ”

Lovino punched him, hard, in the gut. Light exploded behind his eyes. He doubled over, spitting up bile. It splattered like the rain against the pavement.

“Don’t talk to my brother like he’s your friend.” Lovino scowled. He brought a fresh cigar to his lips, but a trickle of water made it sizzle. Dark eyes squinted up at the sky and Lovino clicked his tongue. “Bring that dumbass under the awning. I’m getting soaked.”

“Feliciano. Dude. You don’t gotta listen to him. I don’t even know what’s going _on_ right now, I’m just trying to get home and, fuck, Arthur’s gonna lose his _shit_ if I’m not back soon. I mean, he’ll probably come looking for me. He might even call the _cops_ so, like, I’m just doing you a favor here, okay?” Alfred turned, and the flank of a pistol cracked across his face. He went down.

“Oops!” Feliciano blanched, covering his mouth with his free hand. “Oh, I hope I didn’t hurt you too much. You know, your face is one of your best qualities, as a salesman! Then again…I guess it’ll help us out, if you don’t have such a nice face anymore. Maybe then you won’t be able to steal our customers from us.”

Two arms hooked under his own, and Alfred scrambled for leverage. But Feliciano was dragging him, wrestling him over the cement. Up above, a blur of green, white, and red canvas came into view. It looked like the outside of a restaurant and—Suddenly, Alfred knew where they were.

Feliciano dropped him. Alfred came down hard on his tailbone. He grunted, started to stand, and froze on his knees when another glint of gunmetal filled his sight. A slip of incredulous laughter escaped him. His eyes flicked frantically between the two Vargas brothers. Without his glasses, he couldn’t _see_ their presence as much as he could _feel_ it. And they felt _dangerous_.

“Got anything you wanna say?” Lovino asked. “Or you just gonna keep gawking at us until you piss me off?”

“Dude,” Alfred panted. Blood gushed over his lips and he did his best not to taste it. His chest heaved beneath a reddened shirt. “It’s _just weed._ ”

“Wrong, _culo_. It starts with weed. Shitty weed, like the kind you were slinging before. That isn’t what twists my balls. It’s when you start _refining_ shit that I get concerned.” Shiny black loafers clicked across the pavement like a pendulum. “You grow your own pot. Whatever. But then, people _like_ it. And you get cocky, see? You start thinking, hey, maybe I’m not a cock-sucking dumbass after all. Maybe I can do even _better_. You start playing around with crack. Or maybe you sling a few grams of crystal because, hey, the world’s your oyster, sunshine. Ain’t it?”

“That’s not _true_.” Alfred jerked slightly, then settled back down when Feliciano stepped forward. He dropped his head and spoke as calmly as he could. “I don’t wanna cook, fucking, methamphetamine. Okay? I don’t mess with that shit. I was just trying to make a couple extra bucks to pay rent. Literally how am I a _threat_ to you—”

“How ‘bout this?” Lovino crouched down, until the smoky musk of his breath ghosted Alfred’s cheek. “I don’t _care_ if it’s ‘just weed.’ I don’t care if you only make five bucks every time you jerk off for a junkie and beg him to buy your shit. Every dollar you make out here? That’s _my_ money. That five bucks? Maybe I wanted to buy a fucking pizza with it. Hell, maybe I wanted to use it to wipe cum off my dick. Doesn’t matter. Know why?”

Alfred waited for an answer. His gaze trembled, back and forth, between the other man’s eyes. In the dim of the oncoming storm, they appeared black. So black, Alfred couldn’t see the soul inside. His breath shuddered as he swallowed a mouthful of blood.

“Huh? You done talking?” Lovino stared at him a moment longer. Then, he bit the end of his cigar and pushed himself to his feet. “I’m sick of this toddler running around my turf and acting stupid. Someone might start to associate me with him.”

“Oh, I think I know a way to make sure that doesn’t happen!” Feliciano lowered his gun, but Alfred didn’t feel any relief. If anything, his defenses spiked higher.

“Yeah? You know how to tell people this motherfucker isn’t friends with the family?” Lovino turned, affecting a sort of dull interest. Alfred got the distinct impression that they were running through a script now. _Playing_ at something. He steeled himself against the rest of their game. “What is it, _fratello?_ ”

“There’s a brand, silly.” Feliciano’s smile told Alfred he wasn’t talking about _Prada_ or _Gucci_. There was _fire_ in his eyes. “A little symbol we can burn right into his skin so everyone can see how we feel about him!”

“ _Dude!_ ”

Lovino ignored him. Smoke spilled out of his nose and mouth, shrouding them all in a haze of grey. “Go get it.”

“I’m one step ahead of you.” Feliciano smiled proudly. He reached into his suit vest and, when he withdrew his hand, a little coil of metal flashed in the lightning. Alfred’s first thought was, _at least it isn’t the gun._ His second thought: _It’ll hurt a hell of a lot more, though._

“You can’t be serious.” Alfred wiped his face on his shoulder, smearing blood. It bought him time as he searched for a way out. Lovino’s car keys were his in pocket. But there was a park not far from here. Alfred could run pretty fast. They’d have a hard time keeping up with him if he could just get away from the street… “Dude. Lovino. Feliciano. You can’t _brand me_ for selling weed outside of some shitty University in New York. And, look, you’re delusional if you don’t think there’s _thousands_ of other people doing the same thing I am.”

“The difference is, we _know_ about you. And when we find all those other stingy assholes, they’ll get what’s coming to them too.”

The click of a lighter caught Alfred’s attention. His eyes widened as Feliciano turned his scrap of metal over a yellow flicker of flame. The younger Vargas brother smiled when he saw him. “It’s our company’s logo. Cute, huh? If you want, you can pick where we put it!”

“Weed.” Alfred’s voice cracked, raw, as he watched the searing heat of the brand. “It was just. A bag. Of fucking marijuana. You could just ask me to _stop._ ”

“You wanna know something?” Lovino knelt again. This time, he wrenched Alfred’s head back by his hair and jammed a plank of wood between his teeth. His words flowed hot into Alfred’s ears, even while he fought. “This isn’t just about the weed. You disrespected me. Every time I saw you in that restaurant, you thought you could run your mouth, or smirk at me, or _ruin my game night_ just ‘cause you thought it was safe turf. But now? We’re on my land. You _earned_ this. So shut the fuck up and take what’s coming to you.”

Alfred spat the plank out. It landed with a wet thud that stole Lovino’s focus. “Fuck you, I didn’t do anything wrong!”

“You’re gonna want to chew on that, _culo._ ” Lovino warned. He gathered up Alfred’s wrists in his hands and jerked them behind his back. Alfred struggled, and cried out when Lovino wrenched at his shoulders. For an instant, his vision burned white. “I’ve seen guys a lot scarier than you bite off their own tongues.”

“You’re just mad ‘cause your territory’s getting stolen away from you, but that’s not _my fault!_ You have way bigger enemies to worry about, who are taking way more of your money.” Alfred bared his teeth, kicking hard at loose gravel. He was stronger than Lovino, he knew he was, but _Lovino had a gun_ and Alfred could feel the muzzle now, jammed into the bed of his spine. His muscles slackened some, but his mouth kept going. “You should just pay them back! Maybe then you wouldn’t feel so threatened by the fucking college kid selling weed on the corner of the road.”

“All ready,” Feliciano chimed. He raised his brand, smoldering with a crimson heat. Even without his glasses, Alfred could see the steam rising off the metal. His heart throbbed hard enough to crack a rib. He clenched his teeth, threw himself back against Lovino, and yelled.

“This is _bullshit_ , okay, you people are _nuts_ and I don’t want to get fucking _branded_ —”

Lovino wrenched him back into place. “Should’ve thought about that before you decided to sell on Italian soil.”

The brand moved in closer. Alfred heard the faint sizzling of metal. It was inches from his skin now, already too hot to tolerate. He wanted to get away. Needed to get away from it. He whimpered, growled, and tossed himself around while Lovino fought to maintain his grip. Then, without thinking—

“ _Someone sent me there_.”

The brand stopped. Feliciano exchanged a glance over Alfred’s shoulder, as Alfred careened into a better sitting position. His breaths came in audible gasps. Behind him, Lovino clicked his tongue.

“Someone sent you?” Feliciano cocked his head. “You’re working for someone?”

Alfred coughed on a few ragged inhales. He nodded, laughing without air. “Yeah, yeah, someone sent me, it wasn’t my idea, I was sent—”

“Who?” Lovino slammed his gun into Alfred’s temple. He barked something at Feliciano, who brought the brand in closer. “Who sent you, motherfucker?”

“ _The Russian!_ ” Alfred’s voice shredded past his lips. He laughed again, then swallowed the pained sound. A few broken syllables preceded his next lie. “It was the Old Bear. He did it… He sent me.”

Lovino put up a hand to stop Feliciano’s approach. Then, he turned Alfred around to face him. Skepticism lurked in his eyes but, more than that, _surprise._ “You’re working for that old bastard?”

“He _was_ quick to invite him to our Poker game,” Feliciano mused. “And from what you told me, Lovi, he always sticks Alfred as your server. Like he wants him to keep an eye on you.”

Lovino scoffed. It was a sound of disbelief, but he was _listening_ and that was all Alfred needed. “I thought you said you didn’t have anything to do with our territory getting taken away.”

Alfred feigned an ironic laugh and let his expression darken. “Yeah. It’s not _my_ idea.” He sniffed, managed not to gag on his own blood, and his lips peeled back from crimson teeth. “I’m just following fucking orders, okay?”

“Oh, the Old Bear will be _mad_ if we break one of his toys.” Feliciano withdrew, tail tucked. He dropped the brand at his feet. “He’s sending people after our territory to retaliate for something _we_ did first. We can’t get payback against his payback. It’ll start a _war_ —”

“Shut the fuck up.” Lovino stood straight. He leveled a look on Alfred, but Alfred could tell his thoughts had scattered. “Clean yourself up, _bambino_. I’m gonna call daddy for you, and you better fucking _pray_ he has a good explanation for your bullshit, or I’m sticking this brand on your _tongue_ to shut you up a while.”

Lovino strode off, then. He flipped a phone out of his pocket, dialed a number, and kept walking until Alfred couldn’t make out the shape of his body. Feliciano stayed near, but Alfred didn’t look at him either. He just worked on cleaning the blood from his face and tried to conjure a story for Arthur. The drum of his heart made him feel nauseous. Or maybe it was his experience almost getting _branded_ by an Italian mobster. Movies never told you, but that kind of thing probably made people just the slightest bit ill. Even the heroes.

Lovino returned a few minutes later. His eyes were dark, full of emotion, but he didn’t meet Alfred’s gaze long enough for Alfred to tell _what_ emotion. He jerked his chin at his brother.

“Rain’s letting up. Come share a smoke with me.” Lovino waited until Feliciano joined his side to turn his attention to Alfred. He pointed. “You. Stay there. If I have to chase you with my car, I’m hitting you with it, and the Old Bastard can replace you with some other sugar baby.” He snapped his fingers at Feliciano and said, “Let’s go.”

Soon, Alfred was left alone with his thoughts. The last few raindrops rolled off the awning to splatter on the pavement below. Lazy traffic crawled past and Alfred knew none of the drivers noticed him. This was Manhattan. Someone like him, sitting bloodied and bedraggled against the brick exterior of an Italian diner, was not a new sight nor a spectacular one. He was just another hoodlum loitering outside an otherwise reputable establishment. Even if people knew what had happened to him, they wouldn’t dare intervene. Not where the men in dark suits were involved.

That’s when Alfred’s fear started giving way to pride. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He was just trying to pay rent, to keep a roof over his head, and Mattie’s head, and Arthur’s. He just wanted to _survive_ out here; not finance shiny leather shoes or overpriced foreign cigars or fancy sportscars. He wasn’t looking for luxury, wealth, or fame. He didn’t _care_ about taking anyone’s territory or stealing clientele. But maybe he should start caring. Maybe, if he was going to get threatened anyway, he should at least do something to _deserve_ it. Something intentional.

Alfred’s eyes flicked up, peering through the ends of his hair. The Vargas brothers stood facing the road, talking to one another with animated motions. Setting his jaw, he inched forward, curling his fingers around the brand. Then, he sat back, reached into his pocket, and retrieved his own lighter. If those assholes wanted to play with him, fine, but he wasn’t a ragdoll. He _bit back._

Just then, a new set of headlights pulled into the lot. Alfred panicked, burying both tools in his pockets. He watched as a steely grey vehicle crept over the curb, then rolled to a stop in one of the empty spots. Alfred lowered his eyes. He had two choices right now: He could wait until Ivan came over and hope and hope and _hope_ the man pitied him enough to give credence to his fib. Or he could make a run for it. Take off sprinting while the Italians were occupied, quit his job, and get the hell out of Dodge.

Suddenly, a pair of heavy boots crunched over the gravel to stop in front of him, and he knew his decision was made.

“Him.” A second pair of shoes, loafers, drew up slightly behind the first. Lovino crossed his arms. “He’s with you?”

Alfred tilted his head back until he was looking up, up into a lake of violet ice. The Old Bear’s expression was etched from stone, unreadable. His hair, damp with rain, curled around the edges to obscure his brow. His lips rested in a neutral frown. Alfred’s heart clutched. He waited for someone to speak, or even just to move, to free him from that unyielding scrutiny. Finally, Ivan reached up, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed.

“Yes. He’s mine.”

Relief stormed Alfred’s body. He broke into a smile, hiding it against his shoulder. The Old Bear was covering for him. _The Old Bear_ was—still looking at him, glaring almost, with eyes like warning lights. That’s when Alfred realized: He wasn’t off the hook.

“Huh. Well, no shit… You. Stand up. Come on.” Lovino gestured sharply with two fingers, and Alfred rose to follow the motion. “You know this kid has been jerking around in our territory, don’t you, old bastard?”

Alfred’s eyes shifted back to Ivan in time for the other man to shrug. “You know your territory is shrinking every day you do not pay your debt to me?”

Lovino chuckled bitterly around a fog of smoke. “ _Bene…_ But you’ve been skirting around the edges of our territory until this point. Why stick him right in the middle of it now?”

“It’s marijuana, Lovino,” Ivan said dryly. “You’re lucky I didn’t set him up with something that would actually threaten you.”

“I still say he fucked up the order,” Lovino mumbled. He expelled a stream of smoke over his shoulder, and Ivan followed the movement with his eyes. “You probably set him up somewhere on the outskirts of our turf, and his dumb ass got himself caught in the middle of it on accident. Now you’re covering his ass.”

Alfred squeezed his eyes shut. Lovino was close, uncomfortably close, to the truth; Ivan _was_ covering for him. Alfred didn’t know why, and he didn’t know for how long, but god, he was grateful. He looked up again when Ivan stepped forward. It was a casual movement, but Lovino recoiled anyway. And the Old Bear towered before him.

“You think I recruit people who can’t obey simple commands?” Ivan’s question sounded soft, almost tender. It made Alfred’s skin crawl, and he wasn’t even the recipient of that tone. “If he was somewhere, it is because I put him there. Do not doubt the intention of my actions.”

Lovino held Ivan’s gaze. His body stood rigid, his mouth tense, but he didn’t shy away. He tapped the ash from his cigar and drawled, “Why him?”

“You ask a lot of questions,” Ivan observed. “Maybe it is my turn to start asking questions. Like, how much do you love your brother?”

Lovino’s eyes flashed, then darkened. He didn’t respond. Somewhere in the encroaching night, Feliciano cowered.

“Ah.” Ivan took a step back, allowing the other man space to breathe. “Where are your glasses?”

Alfred perked up. It took him a second to realize Ivan was speaking to him. “Oh. Uh.” He motioned to where they’d fallen, and Ivan nodded.

“Go fetch them. And get in the car.”

Alfred looked between the trio. Taking a breath, he peeled away from the wall and started in the direction of Lovino’s car. Once he was out of earshot, the men continued their conversation. The low thrum of accented voices tickled the edge of his hearing.

He bent down, groping blindly at wet asphalt. A stringent, rain-damp scent clung to his senses. His fingers curled around wire frames and he brought them up for examination. A few new scratches shone on the glass, but he was used to that. He wiped the rain from his lenses, settled them on his nose, and looked back at the restaurant.

None of the men moved. It was like watching a nature documentary: Three great predators observed one another for the first signs of threat. Ivan was a fierce grizzly, large and proud. And the Vargas brothers, they were hyenas—Smaller, not at the top of the food chain, but powerful in their solidarity. What did that make Alfred, he wondered?

“A rat.” Alfred sighed. He rubbed at the moisture on his face, then trudged over to Ivan’s car. He paused outside the passenger door. It was a Cadillac, frost matte exterior. As a kid, he used to see eyes in the headlights, and mouths in the bumper. Ivan’s car had a face too. It smiled, but it was a wicked grin. Alfred felt like it was eating him when he climbed inside.

The leather interior swallowed sound. Alfred found himself caged, caught in a steel tomb of silence. But it was secure, too. He watched the silhouettes beyond the windshield. Then, his attention drifted to his surroundings. He marveled at the blue glow of a digital display. It looked futuristic, something out of a sci-fi film, and nothing like his own car, which was decades old and fixed together with duct tape and wire. He listened to the slow hum of his breath as he caressed the dashboard, the gear stick. Magic flowed through his fingertips, spreading cool tendrils through his body. His reflection flickered in the corner of his eye, so he reached up to adjust the mirror. Slowly, he raked his fingers through disheveled hair and smiled a scarlet smile. He might not look it right now, but wash away some of that blood and grime, and anyone could tell—He was _made_ for luxury like this.

Alfred had just begun fiddling with the radio when the driver’s door opened. Ivan slid behind the wheel with a grunt. He filled the entire space next to Alfred, his presence a stable one. He didn’t utter a word, just woke the engine, nudged the gas, and pulled onto the street. Alfred watched his face the whole time.

“Am I in trouble?” His voice sounded small compared to the big man beside him. He sat up straighter, to match Ivan’s size, and nearly spoke again when a plastic baggy appeared between them. His weed. Alfred accepted, thrusting it into his pocket alongside his stolen brand. “Shit. Thanks. How’d you manage to get this back from him?”

“You are going to explain yourself,” Ivan said calmly, but Alfred caught the ice beneath his words. “Start with what you were doing selling drugs in Italian territory, and finish with how my name ended up in your mouth.”

Alfred inhaled deep. “Okay. You wanna know what happened? I was selling _weed_ —Barely even a drug, I mean, come on—to random college kids, just like I’ve been doing for the past couple _months_ now. Except, for some reason, Lovino chose today to go fucking apeshit psycho on me and—I could have taken him. You know that right? Dude, I would have _broken his face_ on my hand if he didn’t have a gun on him. And that was some bullshit, like, what kind of coward points a gun at an unarmed opponent? That was _not_ how we did things back in Alabama. If you had a problem with someone, you took it up in an old-fashioned, like, fist fight. You didn’t whip out a motherfucking _—_ ”

“You are upsetting yourself,” Ivan cut in. He flicked on his turn signal and followed it through an intersection. “I only want facts.”

“Facts.” Alfred laughed. He settled more comfortably in his seat, folding his arms across his chest. “Okay, sure. Fact: I was minding my own business, selling fucking marijuana at the University. Fact: Lovino Vargas has a weird grudge against me so, after harassing me for weeks on end, he finally decided to _threaten my life_. Also facts? I was cornered by a fuckin’ pistol and a hot brand tonight, and you’re obviously the one with the big dick in town, so I just thought—”

“Big dick,” Ivan repeated each word slowly, rolling them upon his tongue.

“Yeah, like, metaphorically.” Alfred flushed. “Y’know, you’re in charge. The Old Bear. Everyone knows you and they’re, like, scared of you or something.”

“Are you scared of me?”

Alfred considered. His eyes narrowed as they explored Ivan’s features. Not for the first time, he took in the broad cut of his jaw, the strong sweep of his nose. The latter had been broken more than once. _And those scars…_ Finally, he said, “I respect you. And maybe you’re a little intimidating sometimes. But I don’t think I’m scared. No. I’m not scared of you.”

A small, tired smile touched Ivan’s lips. “A healthy dose of fear would keep you out of situations like this.”

“Situations… What, like riding in my boss’s Cadillac after he scared the fear of God into some jerks who think they own Manhattan?” Alfred beamed and pressed back against the door to face Ivan. “Okay, I admit, I wasn’t a huge fan of staring down the barrel of a handgun. But everything else about tonight?” Alfred lost his breath when he said, “It was so… _cool._ ”

Ivan glanced in the rearview mirror. The moon reflected in his eyes, silver and whole. “You think this is cool.”

“Dude, are you kidding me?” Alfred laughed again. He drew his knees up to his chest, gathering in all his excitement and holding it tight. “You’re like this great, powerful mountain who never bows to anyone. You’re allowed to do whatever you want, and nobody owes you money. Well, except Antonio I guess, but no one _wants_ to. I’ve never seen you wear the same boots twice, and you don’t gotta repeat yourself, not ever, because people _want to listen_. They take you seriously, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted, I guess. Just to be taken seriously and, yeah, maybe a little fear wouldn’t hurt. But _I_ don’t want to be the one who’s afraid. I’m sick of living like that.”

Ivan fell quiet. He only ever moved to switch lanes, or adjust the windshield wipers, or study one of the mirrors. Silence returned to the vehicle, heavier than before, until Alfred began to wonder if he’d said something wrong. He tried to distract himself with other thoughts: Where was he going to sell now? How did he explain his late return to Arthur? Did Ivan ever sneak a glance at him too, when he wasn’t looking?

At last, that rumbling accent broke above the ice. “Do you want to join the Bratva, hero boy?”

Alfred’s chest hitched. _Bratva._ He’d heard that word before. It was something to do with organized crime. A syndicate. Something out of a James Bond film, or… His eyes brightened when he leaned in, close enough to smell Ivan’s last cigarette.

“Is _that_ what this is?” Maybe he should have sounded terrified. Maybe Ivan had been seeking a different reaction, something, anything other than breathless exhilaration. If so, he had to be disappointed. Alfred _glowed._ “I mean, I always figured something was up. Obviously something was up. But…the mafia? That’s what that means, right? Like, that’s how deep this shit runs? Damn, I… This is like a movie—”

“No.” Something black shifted in Ivan’s expression. His voice turned hard, and the rest of his posture followed suit. His next turn was not as smooth as the rest. He jerked the wheel hard, so Alfred had to catch himself against the window. “This is not a movie. There is no Hollywood ending, and if any good guys exist, we are not them. This is not a life that people choose, and the type of people that _do_ choose it don’t last long.”

"Wait, but...I don't get it. Why would you ask, if..." Alfred’s smile faltered. His heart sank, deep, in a lake of dissuasion, but his determination only rose. He didn’t do well with the word _no,_ something the Old Bear would have to learn. He studied the hard set to Ivan’s features, and nudged him with an arm. “Come on, big guy… Now who’s the one getting upset?”

Another long pause. Alfred grinned through it, even as the car slowed to a stop, and Ivan’s eyes grew dim without the moon to light them.

“You are trouble.” Ivan focused on him, his face drawn. He looked like he had more to say, years of tortured wisdom he ached to share. Instead, he nodded over Alfred’s shoulder and dug in his pocket for a smoke. “The bus stop is down on your left. Cold water and lemon juice will get the blood off your shirt. I’d zip up your jacket until then, so you do not draw attention.”

“Yeah. Right. Thanks, boss.” Alfred waited for something more. Smoke blossomed from the end of Ivan’s cigarette and his next drag was long, deep. Alfred pursed his lips, cracked open his door, and gave himself over to the nighttime breeze. Quietly, he said, “If you were serious about the mob thing…”

“Alfred.” Ivan blew out a steady torrent of smoke. It clouded his features, shivering around him like a ghost. He stared straight ahead while he spoke. “There is no way to win this game. No matter what hand you hold, no matter what cards you lay on the table… Every time you play, you lose.” At last, his eyes locked on Alfred’s. They burned through the haze with lethal precision, hotter than any brand. “Go home, Alfred, and give this up. Otherwise, you’re drawing dead.”


	6. Delivery

Alfred hadn’t stopped selling weed. Why would he? He had a whole closet-sized garden at home just waiting to be converted to another form of green. More than that, he was _protected_ now. No matter where he conducted business, people agreed to turn the other cheek. No one gave him any trouble and, if they did, he just had to mutter something about _the boss_. Minds changed swiftly, after that. Invoking the Old Bear’s name had been his smartest business move yet.

Now, though, he was back to conducting a more legitimate form of business. A red-orange gradient loomed above the Russian restaurant. Surrounding buildings were cast into peaks and valleys of shadow. The only light came from the artificial glow of streetlamps, headlights, and building fronts. It was one of those starless sunsets that made Alfred miss Alabama, the nights spent counting constellations on his grandpa’s ranch. Things had certainly changed since then, he thought, as he thumbed through the wad of cash in his pocket. His fingers twitched sideways to stroke a familiar ace of hearts. Things had changed indeed.

“Alfred! Hey!” A young voice rose above the city din. Alfred paused outside the diner. He looked from the row of sunflowers to the slight silhouette jogging toward him. “Hey, Alfred!”

“Raivis, my dude!” Alfred grinned with a youthful enthusiasm of his own. He caught the boy by the shoulders before he collided with the shop window. “Whoa, man, where’re you zooming off to?”

“I just,” Raivis smiled bashfully in the midst of catching his breath. “I wanted to catch you before you clocked in.”

“Hey, well, consider me caught. What’s up?”

Raivis shifted from foot to foot. A faint pink flush crept over the collar of his uniform. He fumbled with something near his hip, then offered it out for inspection. Cash, Alfred realized. He couldn’t see how much, but there were at least a few bills wrapped inside that twenty.

Quietly, Raivis said, “I know you’re selling some…stuff. I want to buy some.”

Alfred’s brows shot up. “Dude, what are you talking about?”

“Is this not enough money?” Raivis’ voice trembled as he dug through his pockets for more. “I can give you a little extra! I just got paid, so—”

Alfred hushed Raivis with a hand on his shoulder. He glanced behind them, opened the door for an incoming customer, then ushered Raivis off to the side of the restaurant. He leveled a look on the boy, all blonde curls and frayed nerves, and a skeptical smile crept across his face.

“Raivis, my man…” Alfred tipped his head, studying the kid over the tops of his glasses. “ _How_ old are you exactly?”

Raivis flustered. “I’m almost sixteen.” Then, before Alfred could respond, “You remember being my age, don’t you? I bet you did all kinds of crazy stuff. And I drink all the time. It’s not like this is super different.”

Alfred quirked a brow, still smiling. He threw another glance over his shoulder, then slid against the brick of the building next to him and rifled through his pocket. “This is what you want?”

Raivis’ eyes widened on the little green bag. Amusement tickled Alfred’s throat, until he had to clear it with a laugh. He tucked the weed away again.

“I didn’t know you had it on you right _now_ ,” Raivis squeaked. “Won’t the Old Bear get…mad? If you’re carrying drugs around his restaurant?”

“What, are you gonna tell him?” Alfred asked, grin widening. Raivis’ look alone told him that he wouldn’t. Alfred crouched to his level. “Listen, dude, I’ve been doing this for a long ass time, okay? And that big guy in there? He hasn’t noticed a _thing_. Let me tell you something. When bears get old, they get blind. You get what I’m saying?”

“I think so…” Raivis’ attention flickered to Alfred’s pocket, and Alfred chuckled before straightening up.

“Y’know, Rai, I’m really flattered you wanna try my product. I am. And, if my conscience weren’t so big, I might even sell it to you. But I really don’t think I can deal to a kid if I still wanna sleep soundly at night. You get me?”

“Wh—But that’s not _fair._ ” Raivis trailed behind Alfred when he started circling to the front of the restaurant. “You’re just not selling to me because you _know_ my age. But I bet you don’t ID everyone who buys from you. You’ve probably sold to tons of people my age, and you just didn’t know it.”

“A good man isn’t always consistent with his morals, but he sticks to ‘em when he can.” Alfred laughed, turning to walk backwards. “That sounds like a movie quote, don’t it? Man, I should write scripts. Maybe I’ll haul my ass out to California one day—”

“I’ll give you a hundred dollars.”

Alfred stopped. His arms dropped to his sides. “Dude… It’s sixty bucks for an eighth, okay? I can’t let you pay more than that.”

“I have it,” Raivis said with a shrug. He flicked through his cash and Alfred watched the cascade of paper. It was all there: One hundred bucks before he even walked into work. A long buzz of silence hung between them.

“…Okay.” With a quick glance over either shoulder, Alfred stepped forward and tucked a plastic baggy into Raivis’ outstretched hand. He accepted his pay in the same exchange. Awkwardly, he added, “Just…stay in school, ‘kay?”

Raivis laughed, but the sound was hollow. His eyes lingered on the product just a second too long. Alfred got the distinct impression that…something happened there, but he wasn’t sure what. He let the feeling roll off him, ruffled Raivis’ hair, and started around the front of the building. When he moved to hold the door open for the younger boy, he realized he stood alone. Somewhere on the side of the building, a heavy door clicked shut. Alright, so the kid had special keys to the restaurant. No big deal.

Inside, Alfred dodged servers and guests with a smooth series of “Pardons” and “Behind yous.” A rich blend of aromas fogged the air, thick enough to serve as an appetizer all on its own. Alfred swallowed the saliva that pooled in his mouth and shimmied his way back to the computers. He clocked in, tightened his apron, and before Feliks could ask, he offered to run some food for him because, god, everyone in Manhattan must be craving borscht right now, huh?

But Alfred loved the thrill of a good meal rush. It wasn’t the same as flying a plane, of course—And pilot school remained his primary goal—but serving stirred a certain excitement in him, nonetheless. He felt it whenever he saw families smiling at their shared dessert, or college students debating their first drink of the night, or young couples startling at their waiter’s approach because they were too busy gazing at each other over untouched plates. Food was a universal passion.

It still didn’t smell as good as the inside of a Cadillac, though.

That sudden thought made Alfred stumble. The stack of dishes in his arm tilted dangerously to the left, and he just managed to catch it before it shattered over pearlescent tile. He huffed a curse when his grasp began to slip. Someone gasped, out of sight, and rushed to his aid.

“I got it,” Alfred insisted, even as half the bowls got whisked away from him. He steadied the remainder, leveling a grateful smile overtop of them. It brightened when he saw who’d helped him. “Toris! Right on. Thanks for saving my ass, dude.

“Oh, Alfred.” The manager perked up around his confiscated dishes. He balanced them against his chest, to push a scatter of flyaway hairs off his forehead. From the looks of it, he hadn’t gotten a break since he’d come in that morning. “I’m glad I ran into you.”

“Literally,” Alfred teased.

Toris smiled politely. He opened his mouth, like he had something to say, but didn’t particularly wish to say it. The words came anyway. “Actually, I was coming to tell you…” He hesitated. “You’ve been assigned to a special section tonight.”

“Yeah?” Alfred’s attention drifted over Toris’ shoulder, only briefly.

“Yes… Ah, let me take these from you and—” Toris snapped out of whatever trance had seized him, and he gathered the rest of Alfred’s dishes, waving him away when he tried to argue. “Please, let me.”

“Okay, yeah, sure thing. Here.” Alfred helped stack the dishes more carefully, and felt relieved when Toris didn’t ‘Pull an Arthur’ and immediately reorganize them himself. Instead, he received a worn, but appreciative smile.

“Oh, thank you. Um. Yes.” Toris laughed wanly, once all the glassware was secured. “You’re in the back tonight. They’ve already started on their appetizers and drinks, so don’t worry about that.”

“Yeah?” Alfred said again, and he snorted at the echo of his own voice. It was the simplest thing he could think to say, considering his summons. Already, goosebumps pricked the back of his neck. “Anyone ever get that heating issue figured out back there?”

“I’m sorry?” Toris blinked out of some unshared distraction. “The… Oh, the, yes, the thermostat. Eduard took a look at it just the other day. It should be… Yes, it’s working fine now. No troubles.”

“Cool.” Alfred clicked his tongue, then gestured toward Toris’ jaw. “And how’s that thing healing, anyway? You know, it’s pretty crazy how—”

“Alfred.” Whether he willed it or not, Toris’ free hand hovered over the glossy pink of his burn. “You know who sits at that back table. You shouldn’t keep him waiting.” His smile looked pale when he added, “Good luck.”

Alfred didn’t feel like he needed it, luck. He thanked Toris anyway and waved over his shoulder when they parted ways. Then, he strolled back to his designated row of booths. The air was cooler, quieter over here. The bustle and buzz of the restaurant stayed trapped behind some unseen barrier and so too, it seemed, did the heat. _Fixed thermostat my ass,_ Alfred thought. He unrolled his sleeves as he drew close. Cigarette smoke beckoned him forward, caressing his face like a set of spindly fingers. The section’s only occupant didn’t look up from the files stacked before him. He waited until Alfred stood still to speak.

“Do you want to tell me everything you’ve done wrong tonight before you even walked through the front door,” Ivan began in a casual drawl. His eyes swept up to meet Alfred’s. “Or should I be the one to say it?”

Alfred blinked, taken aback by the instant accusation. This guy did not waste any time. “I’m…afraid I don’t know what you mean.” He flashed a crooked smile and added, sincerely, “Sir.”

Ivan’s expression read like a warning, albeit a muted one. He drummed his knuckles on the table in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. “I will give you a hint, since I know honesty does not come easily to all of us.” He held up three fingers. “I have counted this many mistakes from you. So far.”

Alfred adjusted his smile into something more convincing. He tucked his hands behind his back, all professional-like, and said, “I’m eager to hear how I can improve in the future.”

“I do not know about the future,” Ivan confessed. “But, speaking to the present, I can say this: You’re still dealing drugs.”

Alfred’s smile froze wrong. Whatever conversation he’d been expecting, it wasn’t this.

“You’re still dealing drugs _in your place of business_.” Ivan shrugged and corrected himself, “My place of business.”

Alfred nearly stuttered— _Stuttered,_ like he was his goddamn brother—when he said, “Boss, with all due respect—”

“You’re still dealing drugs in my place of business. But now,” he interrupted Alfred’s protest with a raised finger. “Now you are selling to children as well. Congratulations. You have won the award for Fuck-Up of the Month. Perhaps next time, you will go for _Employee_ of the Month, yes?”

Alfred fell quiet. He was beginning to connect the dots here. Raivis had been a pawn. That should have been obvious, looking back. He bought from Alfred so he could run off and report to their boss. And now Alfred was in trouble, like a kid who stole from the candy store. His complaints only took the form of resigned laughter. “Sweet. What do I win?”

“The first one gets you your name on the wall and a free meal.” Ivan ground out his cigarette, letting the last of the smoke spiral around him. “I am still thinking of your ‘reward’ for the second one. Sit down.”

Alfred snorted, but he did as he was told. He drew up a chair across from Ivan and sat with his temples pinned between his hands. Half to himself, he murmured, “I just can’t believe that little sucker snitched on me.”

“Raivis simply confirmed for me what I already knew.” Ivan’s eyes flashed, like violet lights on a crystal lake. He was smiling, softly. “I see a lot around here. Even despite my _blindness_.”

Alfred winced. “Okay, now, hold up a sec. I was just kidding about that.”

Ivan hummed a half-hearted acknowledgement. He tapped another cigarette out of its box, thought better of it, and turned to his bottle of vodka instead. He took a long drink, then offered it out to Alfred, who accepted.

“Thanks.” He shifted the bottle between his hands before finally raising it to his lips. He gagged on a quick gulp and wiped the flavor from his lips. He must have made a face too, because Ivan chuckled.

“I have been thinking about your devotion to your trade.” Ivan extended an arm, and Alfred gladly returned his beverage. “I would like to discuss it over drinks. I suppose you might prefer a juice box?” Alfred shot him a withering look, and Ivan’s smile twitched. “Very well. How about a _diet Pepsi?_ ”

Those two words, spoken with such drawn precision, left a worse taste in Alfred’s mouth than the alcohol. He scratched the back of his neck and forced a grin. “I guess you know about that too, huh?”

“Just like I know you live with your twin brother and your ex love affair.” Ivan drew a finger down the side of his bottle. It squeaked against the glass, capturing Alfred’s eyes and ears. “How is that going, by the way? Have you met dear Arthur’s parents yet, or is he still hiding them in that hotel in Brooklyn?”

“What?” Alfred’s voice lodged in his throat. “How’d you even know that?”

Ivan’s smile reached his eyes now. Somehow, that was worse. “The same way I know you dropped out of college so your beloved roommates could afford to go instead. Or that you use three-in-one shampoo, conditioner, and body soap.” A crease appeared in Ivan’s brow as he looked Alfred over. He added, “That last one is just an educated guess.”

A pit opened up in Alfred’s chest. He felt his ribs pry apart to accommodate it: A vast emptiness that speared through his stomach. His muscles went weak, all of a sudden. Even his tongue had trouble moving. It fumbled around his mouth when he said, “I don’t… Is this a threat? What are you getting at here?”

“Are you prepared to lose them?” Ivan tilted his cheek against his palm. “Your loved ones? This line of work is not forgiving, Alfred, yet you are hellbent on pursuing it. You are using my name for protection, after all. You’ve made yourself a member of my organization, by proxy.”

“Wait… Seriously?” Alfred adjusted his position, glaring over the tops of his glasses in disbelief. “You’re telling me it’s _that_ easy to join the fuckin’ mafia. Just, like, one drop of the boss’s name and, poof, you’re in? Really?”

“No. Most people who invoke my name so carelessly do not live to do so twice. That is the first obstacle and you seem to have cleared it. This is rare. Lucky boy.”

Alfred sat back. “Then what…?”

“Say you start using my name, and I choose to forgive you for it.” Ivan spread his hands in front of him, as though presenting a diagram only the two of them could see. “Regardless of your _true_ affiliation with me, others… They begin to associate us with one another. They believe you’re in. And, if enough people believe something, does that not make it true?”

Alfred’s eyes flicked from Ivan’s right to his left and back. He felt his brow twitch, mirroring the downward jerk of his mouth. “I’m…sorry, I don’t think I follow.”

“Well. Consider the concept of God.” Ivan settled back more comfortably. “It is faith that gives Him life. What is it that’s written on American currency? _In God We Trust_ …” Ivan gave him a meaningful look, then settled back with a tired sigh. “Here, winter is referred to as ‘ _Christ_ mas time.’ And businesses are closed on Sundays, because it is ‘God’s day.’ It doesn’t matter whether He truly exists; God has become an inescapable part of our reality, because enough people _believe_ in Him.”

“Huh.” Alfred sat, quiet. This was a conversation. A real, honest, and true conversation with the Old Bear. There was a depth to his words, even if Alfred couldn’t tell whether the man even believed them himself. He searched the lines of his hands for some sort of script. Something to say. Something good.

“It sounds like…” Alfred raised his head slowly. Light glinted off his glasses, obscuring his eyes when he smiled. “You’re comparing me to a deity?”

Ivan suppressed a smile of his own. That, Alfred thought, was a victory, even as darkness drew over those pale features. “What I am saying, Ratboy, is that people believe you work for me now. This means they will treat you like you’re mine, regardless of the facts.”

“So, I might as well just do it, right?” Alfred’s pulse skipped as he sat up straighter, bolder. “If everyone’s gonna act like I’m a member anyway, you might as well just let me in. It won’t change anything, except you’ll have one extra person on your side. Really, I can only see this benefitting you, in the end.”

Ivan snorted. This time, when he retrieved his vodka, he did not set it back down until the bottle ran empty. Alfred watched the remaining gloss of alcohol shine upon his lips. He made no move to part them, so Alfred leaned over the table.

“I mean, think about it,” he said, too loudly for it to be a whisper. “Either everyone _thinks_ I work for you and you get nothing out of it, or you can actually recruit me and have a new set of hands or whatever. Come on. Why would you keep excusing me if you didn’t think I’d come in handy later on?”

“Why do you keep doing things that require excusing?” Ivan returned.

“I got your attention, didn’t I?”

An interval of seconds passed without sound. Ivan studied Alfred from across the way, and Alfred returned his scrutiny with an amusement all his own. The clamor of the restaurant reverberated off of whatever shield isolated them from everyone else. Arthur would have called a moment like this something fancy, like _Intimate._ Alfred thought that was a strange word, but it captured the feeling, nonetheless. Then, Ivan shifted forward.

“You still have not answered my question, Rat.”

“Question…?”

“The first way people will get to you in this business is by killing you. And if they cannot kill you, they will go after the people you care for. Are you willing to accept that?”

“Accept it?” Alfred laughed outright. He could tell as soon as it happened that it was an inappropriate reaction. He finished anyway and wiped his eye. “Dude, no, I’m not just gonna roll over, belly up, and accept whatever bullshit comes my way, okay? If someone tries to hurt me, or hurt my family, or my friends, I’m gonna get them first. It’s simple.”

“But you are putting them in danger,” Ivan said, insistent. “Even if you believe in your ability to protect them—Which is, at best, questionable—your mere allegiance to me is a threat to their lives. I need to know that you understand this.”

“I don’t think it is.” Alfred smiled, a challenge, and felt satisfied when Ivan’s eyes narrowed. “Let me tell you something, Old Bear. I get it. Okay? You’ve been in this business a long time, and you’re jaded, and you’ve been beaten down by the evils of this world time after time after time, yada yada… But that just proves my point. Me? I’m exactly what you need right now. I’m like, this shiny new weapon that’s never failed and my outlook on things is so much better—I mean, really, is the mob just _full_ of pessimists, or what? And, I guess, all this to say…”

Alfred stood up, flushed with excitement and another emotion he couldn’t place. He offered out a hand and thrust it closer when Ivan frowned.

“Ivan?” Alfred tilted his head until he was peering over his glasses, sincerity written into the depths of his ocean eyes. “I’m your man.”

Ivan watched him. Silent considerations churned behind a still expression. He settled back slowly, even as his hand curled around Alfred’s own. Alfred swore he could feel the chill of his skin through the leather gloves he wore, and his grip was firm. Both men smiled, Alfred with triumph, and Ivan with something else.

“Very well, _my man._ ” Ivan released him, turning his attention to a slip of paper at his elbow. “I have a delivery for you to make.”

“Seriously?” Alfred’s heart leapt but he forced it down, just as he forced his shoulders against the back of his chair. “Great. That’s great. So…what are my orders, captain?”

Ivan inhaled deeply, then gestured to the paper. He allowed Alfred to take it before continuing. “The recipient is a partner of mine. Yao Wang. His address is listed there, as well as a brief description of his appearance. You are to put this package into Yao’s hands, and Yao’s hands alone. Am I understood?”

“I read you loud and clear, big guy.” Alfred skimmed the sprawling text in his hands, then he read it again more slowly because _fuck cursive._ “Where’s the goods?”

“The contents of this package are sensitive.” Ivan raised his hand, beckoned sharply with two fingers, and waited for Raivis to appear. The boy didn’t meet Alfred’s eyes— _With good reason, that snitch_ —and placed a brown cardboard box on the table before disappearing once more. Ivan went on. “If you open this before arrival, I will know, and I will not be as forgiving as I have been.”

“Piece of cake.” Alfred reached for the box, but Ivan stopped him with a raised hand.

“If you are caught with this,” Ivan began. “You can forget about putting your friends and family in danger, because you will not be seeing them again.”

Alfred’s brows shot up. His hand withdrew from the box. “There’s enough fucked up shit in here to put me in prison, huh?”

Ivan didn’t reply. He only stared grimly at Alfred, who understood—That was an answer all its own. There were worse things than prison. Prison was easy. And yet, he didn’t second guess his decision. Not for an instant.

“Okay.” Alfred lowered his chin. Somber shadow darkened his features. “So, this is serious.”

Ivan matched his sobriety. “You will report back to me tomorrow, if you complete the task successfully. Do not contact me before then. You will clock in for your shift, just as you would any other workday, and you will meet me here.”

“ _When_ I complete the task successfully,” Alfred said, “I’ll meet you on top of the goddamn Statue of Liberty, if you want.”

“You are cocky,” Ivan tossed him the package. “You know there are people out there who take special pleasure in crushing the cocky ones.”

“I’m not cocky,” Alfred caught the box with a grin. It didn’t weigh much. A few pounds at most. “It’s just, how freakin’ hard is it to deliver a package to some random New York apartment? Am I gonna have guys, like, sniping me from the rooftops or…?”

“I think the only one you’re in danger of being shot by, as of right now, is me.” Ivan raised a brow, glancing at the box tucked under Alfred’s arm. “Get moving.”

“On it, boss.” The flavor of that word had changed, Alfred realized. _Boss._ It went from a plain, routine descriptor to something savory. Alfred swallowed, flashed a smile, and started away.

“Alfred?”

He looked back. “Yes sir?”

“Try not to fuck up.”

“What, and risk my title of Fuck-Up of the Month?” Alfred laughed, secured the package more carefully, and gave a thumbs up. “Don’t worry, hey? You can trust me.”

An hour later, he fucked up.

He didn’t realize it, at first. Not even when he was standing outside a closed door, confirming that the addresses matched for the fifth time, and waiting for a Mr. Wang to answer the doorbell. Only, it wasn’t Yao who greeted him. A man with a bodybuilder’s physique emerged from the entrance. He pinned Alfred with blue eyes, _not brown_. His slicked hair was short and blonde, not long and brunette, and he definitely wasn’t Chinese.

“Can I help you?” The man’s accent was heavy, German. His brow furrowed in suspicion. _Must be some kind of bodyguard_ , Alfred thought. No problem.

“Hi!” Alfred perked up on his toes to see into the apartment. The other man moved to block his sight, but he heard the TV blaring in the next room. Laughter followed. So, he wasn’t alone. “I have a package for a Mr. Yao Wang?”

Blue eyes narrowed. “Who?”

“Uh. Yao…Yao Wang.” Alfred pronounced the name slowly, making sure he got it right. He cupped his hand around the little card he held by his hip and examined it briefly. When he looked back up, the man was still examining him. His eyes flicked from Alfred’s face, to the box tucked under his arm. He blinked, slowly, and his lips scarcely moved when he spoke.

“What kind of package?”

“You’ll have to ask him, dude.” Alfred glanced over the man’s shoulder again. “Is he in there? Can I just…?”

He tried to duck inside, but the man intercepted him. He dodged the other way and got caught by a shoulder instead. The man wrenched him back. He didn’t let go, even when Alfred stumbled. Tense lines of caution creased the man’s features and his hand hovered near his hip, as though reaching for a weapon that, thankfully, was not there.

“Dude,” Alfred staggered back, shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Your guy’s expecting this. Now are you gonna keep making me stand around on your doorstep until people start asking questions or, like—?”

That’s when Alfred saw it. The gilded badge peeking out from under the man’s jacket. His eyes widened, taking in the first four letters of his nameplate. _B-E-I-L…_ And realization struck. This guy wasn’t a mafioso’s bodyguard at all.

He was a police officer.

Alfred delivered illicit goods to a _police officer_.

“What kind of package do you have there?” the officer asked again, firmly.

Alfred’s mouth went dry, even as he said, “Wrong house. Sorry.”

“Why don’t you show me what you’ve got in that box, son.” It wasn’t a question. The officer placed his hands on either hip, so his jacket parted to reveal his uniform. The name BEILSCHMIDT gleamed on his lapel. He looked impatient, almost to the point of anger, and Alfred cringed back when he stuck his hand out.

“Dude, it’s…it’s not for you.” Alfred hitched a laugh. He hugged the box closer, mind fumbling over half-formed explanations. He’d lingered outside this man’s door for too long, acting shifty enough to raise suspicions, and— _Goddammit,_ he just knocked his hat off, so now he had to stoop down to pick that up and…

The Cyrillic embroidered on the black fabric caught his attention. _Of course_. He ran his thumb over the bill of his cap and a small, relieved smile crossed his lips. Officer Beilschmidt cleared his throat, so Alfred replaced his hat and straightened up to meet him.

“Look, I’m sorry for the confusion,” Alfred tried. “It’s just, I’m running deliveries for that little Russian restaurant. You know, with the sunflowers out front? And, man, I must have written down the wrong address or something because…I’m clearly bothering you. I thought it was a prank at first, like, you had to be messing with me but, guess it was just a misunderstanding on both our parts, huh?”

The officer processed those words with a dissatisfied frown. After a moment, he adjusted his stance and sighed. “Listen kid, I’ve seen you loitering around the college campus for the past three weeks. I know something isn’t right, and you know it too. So, if you’re here to turn yourself in, you can hand over that box and I can see about getting you a little bit of a break. Take some of that guilt off your chest.”

“What?” Alfred couldn’t help but laugh, incredulous. As if he’d ever _willingly_ turn himself in. Sure, he’d already messed up his first job somehow, but this was so much _bigger_ than him. This was about community. This was about financial stability and social power and men in dark suits. This was about the Old Bear. Even on those rare nights, when Alfred’s fear and guilt threatened to overwhelm him, they never could outweigh his _desire._

Alfred noticed the officer’s quizzical expression and laughed again, more disarmingly. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I just… What? You’ve seen me outside of the college? As in…the one my roommate goes to?” His smile spread wider. “You know, he gives me rides home after class sometimes, so I wait for him outside. That’s…not illegal. Right?”

Officer Beilschmidt’s expression darkened a shade. It might have had something to do with the blush creeping up his collar. He bit the inside of his cheek before nodding at Alfred’s box. “It’s awfully late to be running deliveries.”

“You’re telling me!” Alfred laughed with a surge of renewed confidence. “Guy called twenty minutes before closing. Asshole move, right? Anyway, I guess _I’m_ the asshole now, considering he’s not even gonna get his food until it’s cold.”

“Uh huh.” Sharp blue eyes lingered on the unlabeled package. Alfred took the opportunity to wipe sweat off the back of his neck. Somewhere to his left, a lone cricket squealed.

“So, since I’m running late, I should probably…” Alfred’s smile turned apologetic. The officer blinked to attention.

“Right. Yes. Of course.” He fell back a step, his presence no longer imposing. “Sorry for troubling you.”

It sounded more like a formality than a sincere apology, but Alfred accepted it with a friendly wave. His sneakers scraped concrete as he backed down the apartment stairs. “It’s no trouble. Honestly, it’s kind of a relief to know we’ve got some diligent law enforcement in this city. Y’all are real heroes!”

Once Alfred turned away, true relief stole over him. He picked up his gait as cold sweat dappled his collar. His arms turned to clay around the box he held. He began to wonder, what was in it? How many years of prison was he carrying behind these cardboard walls? Most importantly, how had he ended up _here_ , stammering in front of a hypervigilant police officer, when he had very specific directions to his destination? He glanced at the little card again. The addresses matched. They were identical. So why…?

“You work for the Old Bear, then?”

Alfred looked over his shoulder at the cop. He nearly agreed. Then, he recognized the question for what it was. The Old Bear was a pseudonym, of course; not everyone would know it. So, Alfred furrowed his brow and replied.

“Who?”

Another, longer pause. Officer Beilschmidt pushed his tongue from one side of his mouth to the other, as though trying to _taste_ Alfred’s bluff. Somewhere further down, a door opened, and a breeze crawled through the stairwell.

“The Russian,” the officer elaborated.

Alfred stared at him a moment more. “You mean Ivan?” He snorted a half-hearted laugh. “Yeah, I…I guess. I dunno, he doesn’t come around the restaurant a whole lot. I usually have more contact with Toris.”

“Right.” The officer didn’t believe him. It didn’t matter. There was no probable cause. No real justification for patting down the poor idiot who stumbled to his doorstep. Still, Alfred decided to milk his role.

“Look, man, you don’t wanna call my manager on me, do ya?” He let his shoulders slump and his face crumple in defeat. “I’m really sorry for bothering you. I swear it was just a mix-up with the address. I-I won’t come here again.”

The officer’s mouth tightened. Then he sighed, and Alfred knew the war was won. “No… No need. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

Alfred smiled. A real smile. A triumphant one. “You too, sir.”

He left the apartment complex and sauntered down the road with casual ease. A whistled tune flavored the breeze. The call of a vacant alley answered his song. Looking both ways, Alfred ducked under the shroud of privacy offered by that path. It was only when brick surrounded him on three sides that he acknowledged the sickening pound of his heart.

“Shit. Holy shit.” Alfred slumped against cool concrete, hands shaking around his cargo. A laugh burst out of him, then another, until he collapsed in a fit of humorless mirth. He’d gotten away. He’d evaded a predator—One scarier, even, than the Italy Brothers he’d faced not long before. A rush of adrenaline turned his skin to fire.

“Oh my god, that was… Ha. Shit. How’d I get here?” He pulled Ivan’s card up close to his face, squinting at the address for the umpteenth time. He’d gone exactly where he was supposed to. So, what went wrong?

“Did you send me here on purpose?” Alfred laughed at his own spoken thought. It sounded absurd. And yet…

His fingers scrambled at the flaps of his box. He clawed at the tape, shredded at layers of cardboard. His breathing picked up, deafening in the alley’s stark silence. He wasn’t supposed to open it. The Old Bear said he shouldn’t, the Old Bear said he’d know. But the Old Bear also told him he’d be delivering a package to one of his partners, not a cop, so _fuck_ the Old Bear.

“Holy…fucking hell—” His breath caught. Inside the box, brick-sized bags sat stacked in neat little columns. There must have been a dozen, all of them filled with white powder. It might have been flour, or sugar. But it wasn’t.

“You totally did,” Alfred whispered, breathless. “You so sent me here on purpose. Dude…” He tossed his head back and laughed, laughed until it burned his lungs. Then his eyes fell back on the coke, and those burned too. He started shuffling through the bags. Each one weighed half a pound, at least. Altogether, the box weighed less than a bag of dog food. And it was enough to put him in prison for the rest of his life.

“What the fuck…” He groaned, flicking off his glasses to rub his eyes. His temples throbbed, and he felt too hot, even as cold sweat trickled down his spine. When his palms came away, he noticed a little black spot tucked in the corner of the box. He furrowed his brow and rummaged around for it, pulling hard when he met resistance. A round, wireless device came loose between his fingers. He examined it slowly as disbelief took over.

It was a microphone.

“Hello? Testing. One, two…” He beat on the mic with his finger, _praying_ for a screech of feedback on the other end. “This is Ratboy to the Old Bear. I’ve got a couple questions for ya. Over.”

He waited, even though he knew he’d receive no answer. He surveyed the darkness, which was brightened only by the scatter of white shapes around him. He nudged one with his foot and choked on another bitter laugh.

“Lemme guess, you uh,” he pulled the mic closer, until it grazed his lips. “You wanted to get rid of me, but I wasn’t worth the effort. Yeah? You just wanted me to do it to myself. Less work for you. That right?”

He sucked his next breath through his teeth. He felt cold, all of a sudden, like he did every time Ivan entered his space. His eyes flicked to the mouth of the alley. It was empty. He was alone, and alone meant safe. Now, if only he could convince his heart to stop racing.

“I’m still here, boss!” Alfred’s voice pitched high, echoing against the surrounding brick. He held the microphone with both hands and hunched in around it. “You hear me? My big mouth might get me into trouble, but it can pull me right out too. You see that?” A thin laugh stuttered out of him and he shook his head: At the drugs, at the cop, at the Bear, at himself. He picked up a bag of cocaine and hefted it from hand to hand.

“And I’m gonna talk my way out of this too, when I see you tomorrow.” He licked his lips—They were dry, so dry—as he studied the box he wasn’t supposed to open. A reedy sigh escaped him. “Looking forward to it, big man.”

He flicked the mic away somewhere in the dark. Then, he set to repackaging those little bags of sin. One by one, he stacked them into place. It almost felt, in some strange twisted up way, cathartic. Like he was building a house of cards instead of a toying with a life sentence.

At last, he forced his hands to steadiness, picked up the box, and started out into the street. He didn’t worry about getting caught—Not during his walk, not during his bus ride home, not even when he stumbled into his apartment and hid six pounds of cocaine beneath his bed. He had a meeting with his boss tomorrow, and the universe wouldn’t inconvenience the Old Bear. Alfred’s time belonged to him now. Nothing else would dare interfere.


	7. Promotion

_“Forget about the delivery.”_

Alfred rested his cheek on his arm. His hand hung out the passenger-side window, and cool wisps of wind scattered his hair across his face. Shifting slightly, he nudged his sunglasses into place. It was a beautiful day, but he was wearing a jacket.

_“So, what? That was just a test? Wanted to see how I’d weasel my way out of it?”_

_“I have a new task for you, Ratboy.”_

_“You spied on me.”_

His free hand fiddled idly with the radio. Next to him, Matthew complained that he never listened to a song all the way through. But Alfred couldn’t focus on music. The weight of his gun sat heavy in his pocket.

_“Someone from an opposing syndicate owes me money. Can you handle this?”_

He’d replayed the conversation in his head a hundred times over. He checked for loopholes, for any indication that this might be another trap. Then, he decided he _could_ handle this. He could handle this so expertly, he didn’t even need to go to Toris for more information like Ivan had suggested. He knew exactly who owed the money. It was impossible to forget, after the little scene he and his partner had caused that night in the restaurant. And wouldn’t it be embarrassing when the American _bambino_ intervened?

“You know the light’s green, right?” Alfred propped himself on an elbow and looked at his twin. “You can go.”

“Oh, shit. Sorry, I’m a little…” Matthew trailed off, but the red in his eyes gave him away. “Um, why didn’t you have Arthur drive you, again?”

Alfred laughed, like Matthew had just told a really funny joke because, in a way, he had. “Come on, Mattie, you know how he gets. All ‘Where are you going?’ and ‘Who’s gonna be there?’ and ‘Fork over some gas money, old chap.’ I’m really _not_ trying to deal with that tonight.”

“Yeah… So, where are we going exactly?” Matthew glanced at his GPS, muttered something that was too polite to be a curse, and pulled into the turn lane.

“Now you sound like him. Great.” Alfred rolled his eyes playfully and added, “I’m just meeting up with a friend. He’s supposed to give me something. It’ll take, like, two seconds.”

“And you couldn’t drive yourself, or…?”

“Hey, every good heist needs a getaway driver.” He winked when Matthew looked at him, but his brother didn’t return the smile.

“Wait… Are you really doing some, like, illegal shit?” Matt groaned under his breath. “This has something to do with that Russian guy, doesn’t it? Jeez, Al…”

“Nah, bro. Nothing like that,” Alfred said, a little too quickly. “That grass is making you paranoid.”

“I’m not paranoid, but I have a killer sweet tooth right now.” Matthew frowned. “I want like…maple syrup.”

Alfred only half-listened. He scanned the sidewalks and streets as they cruised by. The closer they came to the Italian restaurant, the more his skin began to prickle. “Well dude, I’ll tell ya what. As a token of my gratitude, I will totally pick you up an entire gallon of Mrs. Butterworth on the way home.”

“No, no.” Matthew’s expression soured. He sounded like he might gag. “I want the real stuff, not that artificial corn syrup and…glucose gum shit.”

“Whoa ho, Mr. Bourgeoisie over here wants _real_ tree juice, huh?” Alfred laughed and, now, his brother had his attention. “Since when can we afford _that?_ ”

Matthew breathed half a laugh. “Well, I just figure with your new side job…”

“Excuse me?” Alfred’s smile quirked wider. He turned fully in his seat. “Wait, so no, let me get this straight—”

“Al, it’s fine, I don’t need it anyway.”

“So, _I_ get my ass chewed out whenever I make a personal purchase—”

“It was kind of a problem when you were blowing rent money on fedoras and shit, yeah.”

“But now that I’ve taken up a more lucrative business, like the _genius_ entrepreneur I am—”

“You’re selling weed to teenagers, I don’t really think that requires a whole lot of intellect.”

“ _You_ want to dip into my profits.” Alfred jabbed a finger into Matthew’s ribs, and the other boy lazily swatted his hand away. Alfred laughed again. “I gotta say, bro, I’m writing my own rags-to-riches story right now and the fact that you wanna ride my shoulders through it all is pretty golden.”

“I’m gonna lock all the doors as soon as you get out of the car.”

“Whatever, I know how to jimmy the back one. And anyway—Shit, wait. I think that’s him. Can you slow down a minute?”

Alfred tugged off his seatbelt and lurched halfway out the car window. Squinted. A head of disheveled brown hair caught his attention in the mouth of a nearby alley. Matthew slowed down, but the car wasn’t stopping, and they were about to pass him.

“Here, I’m getting out here. Can you—Never mind, I’ll just…” Alfred threw open the car door.

“Whoa, Al, what the fuck are you trying to—”

“Thanks for the ride, Mattie!” His sneakers scraped the road as he fought to find his footing. Matthew hit the brakes, the car screeched, and Alfred staggered outside. Disoriented, he stopped to wave and shut the door. “Go ahead and get your syrup. I’ll pay you back for it.”

“Al, I don’t even know what’s going on, but this looks shady as hell.”

“There’s traffic behind you, dude, go!” He slammed a palm against the roof of the car and, as Matthew frantically struck the gas, called, “Just be back to pick me up in, like, ten minutes, will ya?”

Then, the car lurched away, and Alfred was left alone. Well, not entirely alone. The cold steel in his pocket felt heavier now than ever. He reached inside to caress the barrel, and his heart slid deeper in his chest. He swallowed. He hadn’t fired one of these things since the shooting range with his dad. He hoped he wouldn’t need to fire it tonight.

“Yo, Antonio!” Alfred strode toward the alley with all the confidence of a former high school athlete. One hand swung by his side, inviting. The other explored the contours of his hidden pistol. “How’s it hangin’, bro-ha?”

Antonio perked up, away from the brick wall he leaned against. His eyes widened, then brightened with recognition. Alfred swallowed a brief flutter of guilt.

“Hey, if it isn’t _il bambino_.” He took a final hit from the sweet-smelling stub pinched between his thumb and forefinger, then flicked it into the dark. “How’s everyone’s favorite rat doing, huh?”

“Rat?” Alfred drew to a halt in the middle of the alley’s entrance. His shoulders squared against any attempts to escape. Even still, he rubbed the back of his neck and chuckled. “Guess that nickname’s really catching on.”

“Oh, _sí_ , _absolutamente_.” Antonio smiled. Then, his attention caught on Alfred’s stance. Unconsciously, he shifted to match it. “You don’t mind it, do you? I don’t really know where it came from. I just heard everyone else saying it and thought it was funny, you know?”

“No, sure, yeah. I got you, man.” Alfred reached under his glasses to rub his eyes. His mouth moved on its own. “I don’t know, I just… I guess I’d rather be a rat than a debtor.” He paused then added, “ _You_ know?”

Antonio’s smile faded to a look of confusion. His pose turned defensive. There was a silence of about ten seconds. Then, Antonio laughed once more. “You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you? You’re a funny guy, Alfred. But you gotta be careful saying things like that, you know? People can be really sensitive nowadays. You wouldn’t wanna piss anyone off.”

“Are you threatening me?” Alfred’s hand spasmed around his weapon, still concealed. He hitched a little laugh, then forced the mirth from his expression. “Sorry if I’m misunderstanding you here, it’s just, I’m really _sick_ of being threatened by people.”

“Huh?” The sheer surprise on Antonio’s face made Alfred falter. He whispered something in Spanish. Then, “Never realized you were one of those sensitive people too, friend. _Mi culpa._ My bad.”

“No… Antonio,” Alfred’s resolve wavered just long enough for him to register the click of a gun’s safety. And it wasn’t his. He froze.

“Look, I know you probably don’t mean anything by it, buddy,” Antonio inched forward, both hands gripping his own weapon. “But you’re acting sorta freaky, you know, and your hand hasn’t left your pocket since you showed up here. You can’t blame me for being a little cautious, right?”

“Dude…” Alfred’s breath fled his lungs. He licked his lips, swallowed, and raised his free hand above his head. “Antonio. I’m messing with you, man!” A laugh escaped him, friendly and warm. “Come on. You were _just_ talking about people being sensitive and now you’re—What, you’re drawing a _gun_ on me?” A pause. Then, with as much childish wonder as he could muster, “Is that thing _real?_ Shit… Is it loaded? My dad used to have a few guns when I was a kid, but he always kept them locked up. Cartridges stayed in a separate safe, all that stuff. It always made me wonder how the heck he was gonna protect us from an intruder when he had to unlock, like, twelve different drawers just to load his weapon but—”

“You want to turn out your pockets, Ratboy?”

“Sorry?” Alfred’s finger tensed over his own trigger. He analyzed the gap between them, then took a step toward Antonio. And another. He managed to whittle the space between them down to about a yard before Antonio thrust his gun out to stop him. “Dude! Can you put that thing down? Alright? I’ll give you my money, you don’t need to go all Wild West Drawdown on my ass, m’kay?”

“ _Qué?_ ” Antonio lowered his gun a bit as Alfred patted down his own pants pockets. “Hey, no, I don’t want your money. I just thought you were trying to stick me up here. You were freaking me out, man, big time.”

“It’s fine, okay? You can just take it.” Alfred continued searching, cursing when he couldn’t find his wallet. He moved on to his jacket instead. “I mean, I don’t have a lot. Like, you’ve seen the tips I make—”

He whipped his own gun from his pocket. Steel struck steel, and then Antonio’s weapon was tumbling through the air. It landed with a clatter near the dumpster. Antonio went after it. Alfred fired.

“Stop fucking moving.” He switched the gun to his other hand. He was shaking, badly, but not so much that it affected his aim. And Antonio was lucky for that; the dent the bullet left in the concrete was only a step away from where he stood. “Or else I won’t give you the choice.”

“What’s this about? Huh?” Antonio craned his neck to look over his shoulder. Alfred stepped around to meet his gaze. He dropped it again, just as quickly.

“Hey, uh, do yourself a favor? ‘Kay?” Alfred bent down, never moving his gun off Antonio, and retrieved the other’s weapon from the ground. “Don’t…play dumb with me, or whatever.” He managed a crooked grin and added, “That’s my job.”

Alfred tried to avoid the dull flicker of hopelessness in Antonio’s eyes, but it was inescapable. The other man smiled without a trace of joy. “How’d you know where to find me?”

Alfred’s throat worked around a swallow of saliva. “I don’t know, I-I drive past here sometimes, and I noticed this is where you usually take your smoke breaks, and that…doesn’t matter, okay?” He blinked Antonio’s expression out of sight and focused on the barrel of his gun instead. “I want what you owe him. The Old Bear.”

“ _Sí,_ yeah, I get what you are saying.” Antonio shifted a bit. He was caught in a half-pounce, frozen in that position since the moment Alfred pulled his trigger. “Hey, first, can I stand up, friend? My leg is cramping real bad.”

Alfred’s lips thinned. He considered a moment, then gestured with his weapon, and Antonio straightened, sighing in relief.

“ _Gracias, rato._ _Unos minutos más, y mi pierna se habría atascado así._ ” Antonio stretched one leg, then the other. He rolled his shoulders, massaged the back of his neck. Then, he lunged.

Alfred collided with a solid wall of muscle. It drove him off his feet, knocked his breath from his lungs. His skin scraped concrete. He busted his head on something hard and, before he could recover, Antonio decked him in the mouth.

“Fuck—” Alfred coughed. He tasted iron, tried spitting it out, and got struck again. And again. His hold on the gun slipped. He raised it up to shield himself from another blow. A blow that Antonio dared not deliver, for fear of setting off the weapon. Alfred saw his chance. He kicked Antonio, hard, satisfied by his muffled grunt of pain. Then, he reeled back and _cracked_ the butt of his pistol into Antonio’s teeth. Blood sprayed across his glasses. Antonio buckled, and Alfred rolled out the way.

Both men staggered to their feet. A shrill ringing bounced between Alfred’s right ear and his left. He tried to shake it away. But then Antonio advanced, and the wall stood right behind him, so he didn’t have anywhere else to go but _forward_. Adrenaline took over. He ducked when Antonio drew close and slammed his head _up_ into the other’s jaw. A string of curses, in English and Spanish, poured from bloodied lips. Antonio retreated. Alfred nearly felt grateful, before he realized where his opponent was headed.

_The other fucking gun._

Alfred launched himself onto Antonio’s back. His arms hooked up under Antonio’s own as he fought for leverage. Antonio rallied under his weight as they struggled: Antonio to get free, and Alfred to hang on tight. Then, Alfred jammed his gun into Antonio’s temple and barked the word, “ _Stop._ ”

He didn’t touch the trigger. Even now, in this situation that might have been life-or-death, he remembered his father’s warning. _Never touch the trigger until you’re ready to shoot._ Alfred didn’t want to shoot Antonio. He certainly wasn’t _ready_ to. But Antonio didn’t need to know that. He dug the muzzle in harder.

“Stop,” he repeated, breathless. “I just came for what you owe us. You _owe_ us.” He sucked down a few ragged inhales. “Do the right thing, man. That’s it.”

Everything stilled. The lack of motion was so disorienting, so opposite from the events of before, that Alfred sank under a wave of nausea. When he emerged, Antonio was standing down, shoulders slumped in a show of submission. Alfred muttered a thanks to no one in particular. He began to untangle himself from Antonio’s back, just as the other man _shoved._

“Holy _shit,_ ” Alfred toppled, lost his footing, and just managed to catch himself on an elbow. Pain flared up his arm. He ignored it and pushed himself upright—Just in time to stare down the barrel of Antonio’s gun.

“Toni,” Alfred breathed, falling back on both elbows. Every muscle tensed in preparation. His finger curled tight over his trigger.

“Sorry, Ratboy,” Antonio rasped. He smiled a crimson smile that might have been apologetic if it weren’t so horrific. “But you really shouldn’t have joined this line of work, hey?”

“Wait, wait, wait, _wait._ ” Alfred’s chest leapt on a few frenzied gasps. He thrust his free hand into his coat pocket, seeking some sort of comfort, and— _There._ His wallet. He flipped it open, out of sight, and stroked the bent corner of a playing card. The blast of a gunshot shattered his reverie. Another followed straight after.

The first one missed.

His didn’t.

Antonio dropped his weapon, grabbing at his bloody mangle of a hand. He crumpled to his knees as Alfred looked on in horror. Unlike Antonio, he hadn’t shot to kill. He hadn’t wanted to shoot at all—Shooting a tagboard target was _very_ different from shooting a _living person_ —but instinct, and Antonio’s first shot, had driven him to action.

Now, Antonio was yelling, gasping, but Alfred hardly heard it over the pounding of his heart. His head swam in a thick, crimson haze. Adrenaline pushed him back to his feet. His breaths came through, rough and raw, as he staggered over. He wiped his chin with a sleeve, seized his gun, and waited for Antonio to quieten.

“You done?” Alfred asked once the other man’s cries had faded. Green eyes rolled up to meet his. Antonio looked pale, and he trembled fiercely, but his wound was a minor one. Alfred suspected he’d taken worse—Maybe even from his own partner. He kneeled to the other man’s level.

“Where is he then?” Antonio smiled shakily. His head tilted back, bold, defiant. His breath hissed through reddened teeth. “Your papi. I hear he had to save your ass last time you dealt with _la famiglia_. So, where’s he at now?” Antonio made a show of looking around the darkened alley. He swayed slightly before catching himself. “What, he waiting in the car for you to bring him his money and a blowy, _como_ _un buen chico?_ Like a good boy?”

Alfred stared. Slowly, his adrenaline faded to a dull red pulse. A blankness came over his features. He swallowed, lifted his chin, and said, “This is a solo mission. Everything that happens here, it’s between you and me.”

“You know that’s not true.” Antonio laughed a high, whistling laugh. “Nothing like this stays between two people.”

“Ha…” Alfred pursed his lips. The shaking started up again, in the tips of his fingers, so he clenched them against a wave of uncertainty. No room for that now. “Totally. You’re right. Yeah. This is between you, me, and the guy you’ve been ripping off for fuck knows how long.” He snatched up Antonio’s hand, bloody and broken in his own, and _squeezed._ “So, give me the _fucking money, Toni._ ”

Antonio screamed. Alfred tightened his grip. The sleeve of his jacket clung to his skin, wet with blood. Overhead, birds fled their phone wire perches. The rest of the city went on undisturbed.

“Okay, _okay._ ” Antonio gasped raggedly, again and again, around garbled words. “Okay, please, I’ll get the money, I’ll—”

Alfred pressed harder. Another shriek split the air. He flinched against the sound. “ _Today_ , Toni. I want the money now.”

“Hey, do you have any idea how much—”

Alfred stroked his thumb over the exit wound. Antonio stopped him with a yelp.

“ _Now._ Yes. Okay. I can…” He swallowed roughly when Alfred released him. He continued without looking up. “I can write you a check.”

Alfred took a step back in allowance. “You carry a checkbook?”

Antonio hesitated. _Fine._ Alfred took the initiative. He yanked at the delicate golden chain running into Antonio’s pocket. A wallet hung off the other end, and Alfred flipped it open. He fished a pen from his own pocket and handed over both items. Antonio sucked down a breath, fumbled the pen into his nondominant hand, and began to write.

“No, dude, not like that.” Alfred’s nose crinkled over Antonio’s shoulder. “Write, like… Write a few of ‘em. Spread the dates out. Make it not…obvious and shit—You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” He snorted a halfhearted laugh. “Or are you in debt to _everyone_ you’ve ever had to pay?”

Antonio made a noise, crumpled the check he’d been writing, and started on a fresh one. “You been in this business how long now? And you’re already bossy as the Boss Man himself.” He scribbled a clumsy signature on several different sheets and tore them out after a brief struggle. “Here. In name? These are from the restaurant. One business to another.”

Alfred watched the other man, wary, before accepting the loose papers. He carded through ten of them, all addressed to an establishment Alfred still couldn’t pronounce the name of, the one he preferred to call _that little Russian place_.

“And no one will think that’s weird?” Alfred asked. “This Italian joint randomly sending one-hundred _thousand_ bucks over to one of its competitors?”

“I hate to break it to you, fella, but your business doesn’t _compete_ with ours.” Antonio smiled around another series of wheezing breaths. “There’s nothing city folk love more than a hot plate of pasta. And what do you serve? Cabbage soup? But hey, I hear your concern. And buddy?” Antonio nodded, a question of permission, so Alfred stepped back, allowing him room to stand. His right hand bled freely against his chest. Alfred winced. Antonio did not. “Even if someone gets suspicious, they don’t interfere. They know who runs things around here.”

Alfred watched Antonio’s face. Faint bruises already ringed one of his eyes. Blood dried on his lips, under his nose. Alfred was certain he didn’t look much better. He folded the checks and tucked them into his jacket pocket, alongside his gun. Out on the street, he heard the familiar chug of an old, rundown Ford.

“They know who runs things,” Alfred repeated. “Maybe they should remind you. You seem like you forgot.”

With that, he headed toward the call of traffic. A crackle of excitement needled his flesh. With it, a flood of sickness. He wiped his face with a sleeve, forced his fingers to stop shaking in his pockets. The chill of gunmetal made it difficult. He swallowed something thick when he noticed blood on his shirt that _wasn’t his_. Then, he rifled through the signed checks he’d secured. _A hundred thousand dollars._ His heart swelled, as red as the one painted in the corner of his playing card. Soon, he would see the Old Bear. Soon, he would receive _praise_ from the Old Bear, and that would make everything worth it.

“Al, holy shit, are you okay? Did you get jumped? I’ll call the cops. Did you see who did it? Which way did they go?”

Alfred ignored his brother as he approached their car, let himself in, and turned on the radio. A pale smile moved across his lips. Without thinking, he said, “Hey, Mattie? Can you take me to work?”

Matthew fell quiet. After a long minute, he said, “Al… You need to tell me what’s going on. Okay? Does it have something to do with your boss? I know he gave you that money the other day, and… I mean, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen you all beat up lately, so…”

Matthew trailed off, as Alfred knew he would. He took the opportunity to crank up the music. The song crackling through the speakers was familiar, triumphant, and Alfred sang along in between nervous snatches of laughter. It kept his mind off the guilt, the fear, and Antonio’s words echoing through his mind.

_Nothing like this stays between two people._

*

They sat too close to each other. Not that Alfred was complaining. The room they met in was small, cramped further by a few modest pieces of furniture. Too many paintings hung on the walls. Mostly landscapes or forest creatures. There was an ashtray, still smoldering and in desperate need of a clean. At the center, two leather-padded seats faced one another. It was obvious that whoever usually occupied the first chair preferred to shrink back, away from the man settled across from them. Not Alfred. He felt bold, excited, and leaned so far forward that his knee kept knocking Ivan’s own. Eventually, he just let it rest there, and Ivan didn’t protest. The Old Bear finished his cigarette before retrieving the reins of conversation.

“You know you cannot walk into my diner like this.” A leather-gloved hand gestured to the splatter of blood on Alfred’s shirt, the red-brown streaks flaking off his skin. Ivan added, “As much as I appreciate this look on you.”

“Take a look at what I brought you.” Alfred grinned, nodding at the papers in Ivan’s hand. Violet eyes flickered downwards. Then they widened, just a fraction.

“You did not talk to Toris before you left, did you?” Ivan sorted through the checks, steadily training his face back to impassivity.

“Oh, nah. Totally slipped my mind.” Alfred laughed. He careened forward again, so both his knees sandwiched Ivan’s own. “But it doesn’t matter ‘cause, hey, look! I got the guy. I got the money.” Alfred’s smile stuck, until the silence weakened it. He shifted, scratched the back of his neck. “I, uh, I heard Antonio talking about all the money he owes you that one day, so I just figured… That’s all of it, right?”

“That’s all of it,” Ivan confirmed. “From Antonio anyway.”

“Great!” Alfred clapped, once. The sound was too loud for what little space they shared. “Well, hey, that’s great. So, is there an issue…? I don’t—”

“You were not supposed to go for him.” Ivan tucked the checks inside his wallet. His attention returned to Alfred. “Antonio is Lovino’s partner. He’s a big face in the family. The debtor I sent you after, he was much lower in the ranks. Someone more suited to your stature.”

“Screw that,” Alfred said, beaming. “You were trying to set me up with grunt work. And now look at me. I went above and beyond! No surprise there.”

“Did you hear me?” Ivan asked calmly. A strange, grim smile tightened the edges of his mouth. “I said, Antonio is _Lovino’s partner._ He is just below the Boss himself. Surely your movies have taught you what this means.”

“Well… But.” Alfred faltered, frowned. “You’re impressed, aren’t you? That I managed to do it anyway?”

Ivan took a breath. His smile softened, just a bit. He said, in a voice gruff with sympathy, “You have impressed me, Alfred. Yes.”

Liquid warmth flushed Alfred’s cheeks. He returned Ivan’s smile as relief rinsed the worry from his mind. It was all okay. He’d done well, exceeded expectations even, and he’d made his boss _proud._

When Ivan released his breath, it was in the form of a sigh. “I do wish you’d follow directions.”

Alfred’s smile crooked sideways. “Then you wouldn’t have all this money, though.”

“No,” Ivan agreed. “But you might have been better off.”

Ivan’s chair creaked beneath his weight when he turned. He sifted through a few cigarette stubs in the ashtray, selected one, and relit it between his lips. Then, he produced a small booklet from his coat and scribbled something down. Alfred struggled to see. Finally, Ivan tore out the page and offered it up for examination.

“Cash this,” Ivan said. “Consider investing in a good security system.”

Alfred accepted the check, and nearly dropped it just as quick. His eyes flicked to Ivan’s, burning. “Whoa, whoa, wait, are you _serious?_ Ten-thou… Ten- _thousand_ dollars? That’s, like, a whole tenth of what I brought you today. And I get it just for, what, delivering what you were already owed?”

“For someone who doesn’t like to be underestimated, you sure do downplay just how much trouble you succeed at getting into.” Ivan settled back in his chair. “I told you, install a security system. Feed yourself. Feed your family. Get yourself a drink on your way home. And save the rest for rainy days.”

Alfred stared at the check. His emotions pitched toward dangerous levels of elation. He’d seen too many ups and downs today. The inside of his mind became a violently capricious thing. Now, he clung to the joy he felt, eager to stay at the top of this ride. He stood too quickly, nearly toppling his chair, and took Ivan’s hand in both of his.

“Thanks, Ivan. Seriously. You’ve… You’ve done a lot for me. For my brother. Arthur, too. Just… You’ve given me so many opportunities and you’re the only one around who acknowledges my competence, pretty much. Like, I-I can’t, fuckin’, overstate my gratitude here. Okay? Thank you. Just, thank you.”

Ivan appeared taken aback. Now it was him, leaning against the back of his chair, watching Alfred skeptically. Then, he clamped his free hand over Alfred’s own, and he stood too. Again, Alfred remembered how _tall_ he was.

“Do not thank me.” Ivan’s expression stilled, something grey dancing in his gaze. “I’ve done more harm to you than good. I only dread the day you realize this. Now… Why are you crying?”

“Am I crying?” Alfred dragged a hand across his eyes. It came away damp, and he laughed. “Sorry, I guess I’m just…really amazed. And grateful. And, and…” _And scared,_ an unwelcome voice reminded him. He shook it off and wiped his eyes again. His smile cracked wider. “Man, I probably look pretty ugly right now, huh?”

Ivan studied him for a moment. He seemed to draw some silent conclusion, unrelated to their conversation. “Hideous. Let me buy you a taxi home.”

“What?” Another strangled laugh. His hand returned to Ivan’s, without thought. “No, no way I can let you do that. You’ve already given me so much just now, and honestly, I don’t think I can take another favor.”

“This?” Ivan tapped the check. “Is no favor. You did a job for me. I paid you. It is how business works, no?”

“Well, I guess…”

“The taxi? That is a favor. It is safer than the bus. You will appreciate safety, after what you’ve done.”

Something _throbbed,_ heavy and dark, behind Alfred’s ribcage. He swallowed it best he could. A new smile shivered past his lips. “Whoa, hey, I thought I could invoke your name. Keep out of trouble. Remember?” He said it like a joke, but passionately hoped it was true. He waited for confirmation. It didn’t come. Instead, Ivan began to shed his coat. This time, when Alfred felt a _throb,_ it happened somewhere else.

“Whoa, uh, what’s the…?”

“You don’t want to frighten your driver.” Ivan slipped loose his last button and draped his coat around Alfred’s shoulders. It almost fit, a little wide and a little long, but Alfred hardly noticed. This thing _smelled_ like Ivan. Like vodka, cigarette smoke, and something sweeter. Alfred used to think, if coldness had a flavor, it would be something like spearmint. Now he realized, the cold would taste exactly like Ivan’s scent.

“Cover those blood-stains,” Ivan said, snuffing his cigarette in the overfull tray. “And wash up in the restroom before you go.”

“Wow.” Alfred slipped both arms into the coat and set to buttoning it up. “Thanks, Ivan. But what are you talking about, all that danger and doom stuff, like… Is there anything specific I can watch out for?”

“What is the first thing you are going to buy with that money?” Ivan was still facing his ashtray, his back to Alfred. The pale blue of his turtleneck complemented the white of his scarf. He looked like a winter sky.

“Uh… Probably dinner.” Alfred’s smile widened when Ivan shot him a glance. “ _Kidding._ I’ll get a security system, like you said.”

“Good boy.”

Alfred shivered. Heat pooled in his stomach, spreading toward his toes, the tips of his ears. He laughed, breathless. “So, I guess…that’s it?”

“For now.” Ivan’s attention turned to one of his paintings. He drew a knuckle gingerly across the frame. Alfred didn’t realize, until Ivan wasn’t looking at him, how badly he _wanted_ him to.

“Great. Thanks again, boss.”

“Take care of yourself, Alfred.”

A fresh billow of cigarette smoke coaxed Alfred from the room. His borrowed coat drank that fragrance, as though it realized they belonged together. He ducked into the employee bathroom to scrub the blood from his hands and face. A ragged scream echoed in his mind. He cringed against the ghost of that sound. It was easier not to think about once the water ran clear. At last, he stepped outside, and he waited for his cab in a nighttime chill that was still warmer than Ivan’s hands.

*

When Alfred heard a pounding at his apartment door, he thought it sounded like the police. Then, he opened the door and realized it _was_ the police. Officer Beilschmidt stood on the other side of the threshold, done up in full uniform, his badge emblazoned on his chest. One hand rested on his hip. The other, on his gun. Alfred’s heart stopped.

“Good evening, Mr. Jones. I apologize for the late visit. I just have a few questions I’d like to ask you.” The cop spoke before Alfred could find any words at all. He cleared his throat. Tested a response.

“Howdy.” Alfred smiled, propping his forearm against the doorframe. “It’s no bother at all. But you know I have to ask…” His smile turned sly. “To what do I owe the pleasure, sir?”

“I’m here regarding the delivery you made to my house a few nights ago. Do you remember this?”

“Sure.”

Alfred forced down a chill of relief. So he wasn’t being outright interrogated for gun violence or possession of illegal substances, but that didn’t mean he was in the clear. He made a mental map of his apartment. The marijuana in his closet. The guns beneath his bed. At the very least, he’d returned the box of cocaine to Toris, who informed him that the batch was not “pure” anyway, whatever that meant. To Alfred, it just sounded like he was saying, “Yeah, this will get your ass incarcerated, but only for half your life instead of the whole thing.” Still a terrible deal, in Alfred’s mind.

“I was doing a bit of research and,” Officer Beilschmidt creased his brow, as though troubled by his next thought. “My apartment is outside of your delivery radius. Extremely outside of it, actually. Are you aware of this?”

Alfred blinked. “Is it really that far out of range?”

“Yeah. So, what were you doing all the way out there, kid?”

Alfred’s tongue moved ponderously over his teeth. He offered half a shrug and said, “Well, actually sir, you know that customer that called in the order? He’s a really loyal, like, customer of ours. Actually. And, I mean, he’s been eating at our restaurant for _years_ , I guess. I don’t really know all the details, but from the sound of it, he’s a long-time friend of the boss. Used to bring his kids in all the time. You know.” Alfred nodded at his own fabricated tale. He thumbed the side of his nose. “So, yeah. When he called—He was too sick to come in, recovering from surgery or whatever. But he was having _wicked_ cravings. So, we went out of our way for him.”

“That’s very generous of you.”

“’Course.” Alfred stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “It was the least we could do for such a loyal guest.”

Ludwig nodded, once. His attention shifted to a little notepad he produced from his pocket. He didn’t look up when he said, “Actually, from what I understand, your restaurant doesn’t do deliveries _at all_.” His eyes flicked up, piercingly blue. “So, I’ll ask again, what were you doing all the way out at my residence?”

Alfred hesitated. “Well, like I said, sir, he’s a real valuable customer, we’re willing to make some exceptions for him. I don’t know the whole deal, I’m just getting paid to do what I’m told, y’know? No trouble.”

“What’s his name?”

“Huh?”

“The customer. You said he comes in all the time. What’s his name?”

“S-Steven. Steven something. He’s got this long Polish last name. I don’t remember it.” Alfred frowned. “Something with a -ski or a…a -zyk. I don’t know. Sorry.”

The officer’s eyes narrowed. Alfred’s hand drifted to the doorknob. It was shaking again. This time, he was only grateful it was free of blood.

“Really? I could have sworn it was the name of an Asian fellow you gave me before..." the officer mused, and Alfred went pale. "You know, son, I was talking with my brother the other night. He says he’s a pretty frequent diner there too.”

“Oh, sweet.” A muscle twitched in Alfred’s jaw. He couldn’t help but wonder, was this one of his customers that ordered _diet Pepsi?_ “What’s his name? I might have served him once or twice.”

“You did. He remembers you. And he doesn’t remember anyone unless they’re up to no good.”

Alfred choked out a laugh. “I feel like that might be a bit of a generalization but—”

“Ludwig? Ludwig Beilschmidt. My god, is that you?”

Alfred stopped. He perked up on his toes to look over the officer’s head. The officer turned as well, apparently startled by the voice calling from the bottom of the stairs. There was a swift series of footfalls, and then Arthur emerged into the hall. He wore scrubs and a messenger bag that thumped against his hip when he walked. He smiled politely as he approached.

“Alfred, you know Ludwig?” Arthur looked between the two with an amicability that seemed…forced. Alfred nearly cringed when Arthur draped an arm around him. “This one’s staying out of trouble, I hope?”

“Oh. Yes. Er, of course.” Ludwig fell back a step, guarded. “Well, actually, that’s to be determined. Arthur, maybe you can tell me—”

“Wait, Art, how do _you_ know this guy?” Alfred grinned, a product of relief and tense humor. “You have some dark past behind bars I don’t know about?”

“Absolutely not, you tit.” Arthur nuzzled in against Alfred’s side, and Alfred recoiled half a step. He couldn’t understand why Arthur was acting so… _Oh._ But then he saw Ludwig’s reaction, the way the cop averted his gaze, as though to offer them some privacy. A reserved man, then. Someone uncomfortable with public displays of affection, perhaps. Alfred could work with that. He leaned in close.

“What’s your story then, sugar?” Alfred drawled, but he was too close to Arthur’s ear, and he turned away when the other man flushed.

“Well, you must understand, before I settled on medical school, I entertained the idea of becoming a detective. You know how I love those whodunnits and what-have-yous. Officer Beilschmidt was one of the first recruitment officers I got in touch with.” Arthur turned his attention to the officer in question. “It’s a very big city, Ludwig, but you have a way of making it feel just the slightest bit smaller. More personal. How have you been, mate?”

“Good,” Ludwig replied, stiff. “I’ve been doing well. I was just asking some questions about Mr. Jones’ recent conduct—”

“Come now, this is no place to be holding a conversation!” Arthur waved away the look Alfred shot him. “Why don’t you come inside? I’ll put on some tea. Whip up a couple scones.”

“I’m—alright. Thank you.” Ludwig ducked back a few more steps. His eyes went to Alfred’s. “I want you staying out of trouble. I’ve heard a thing or two about you lately. And I like being right, but not about these things. Keep your head on straight, alright?”

Alfred’s smile slipped wider. “I don’t think there’s anything _straight_ going on in this head of mine. You know what I’m saying, chief?”

Ludwig turned on a heel. “Right. Thank you for speaking with me. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

“You’re certain you don’t want a biscuit? It’s no trouble. Really, I enjoy making them!” Arthur trailed Ludwig to the top of the stairs, calling after him. He waited a few moments, listened to the click and slam of the front door. Waited some more. Then, he rounded on Alfred with fire in his eyes. “What. Have. You. _Done?_ ”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Alfred held up his hands in defense. Arthur kept advancing, until they both stood alone in their kitchen. The door swung shut behind them. “Artie, what’s your deal—”

“You need to know your _rights,_ Al.” Arthur dropped his bag to gesture more freely with frenzied hands. “Remain silent. Remember, he can’t search the place without a warrant, so he can buzz right off until he gets one. Hell, you don’t even need to open the _door_ to him, legally. Just, for once, keep your mouth _shut._ ”

Alfred backed up until he bumped the kitchen table. “Won’t that make me look guilty?”

“ _Are_ you?”

“Well, we’re growing weed in our closet, so yeah, I guess _we_ are guilty.”

“Oh, right, drag me into whatever suspicious mess you’ve been involving yourself in, that’s fantastic—”

“And anyway, _you_ were the one about to _invite this guy into our home._ ” Alfred stepped forward with renewed conviction. “I mean, what was up with that? ‘Come on in, old chap. Have a spot of tea. Would you like a side of cocaine with those biscuits?’ I mean, _seriously?_ You’re over here talking about rights and shit. Like, our right to turn ourselves in without any investigation at all? You mean those rights?”

Arthur stared. Slowly, he said, “Al, we have weed. It’s _hardly_ on the level of cocaine.”

“I meant weed,” Alfred said, abrupt.

Arthur’s brow furrowed. He narrowed his eyes, cocked his head, and closed the gap between them. His voice pitched low. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Great, yeah, here we go.”

“No. Really. I’d like to know. Because I’ve had my suspicions ever since I found _bloodstains_ in your last load of laundry.”

“Wait, dude, you’re searching my _laundry_ now?”

“I was moving yours to the dryer so I could wash my own, thank you very much.” Arthur’s lip curled. “As if I’d go rifling through your personal effects. Honestly. How little do you think of me?”

“I dunno,” Alfred said. “I guess it’s just like, I don’t know what to expect from the guy who’s gone through my internet history before.”

“You were _hiding_ things from me! I wanted to know what was wrong. And I apologized for that.” Arthur crossed his arms. “I won’t have this discussion again.”

“Apparently, you think I’m hiding things from you now.” Alfred mimicked Arthur, folding his arms over his own chest. He shrugged a shoulder. “I’m just saying, your paranoid delusions have driven you to worse.”

“Paranoid delusions…” Arthur gave a low, humorless whistle. “Oh, you are on a _roll_ tonight, aren’t you? Well, I can tell you this: Until you communicate with me, and I know I’m not defending something _much bigger_ than what I signed up for, I am through bailing you out of these situations. You can rely on your own big mouth. How’s that?”

“It’s done me well this far.” That mouth quirked into another grin, as evidence. “You seem to like it, anyway. You think I don’t catch you staring at my lips sometimes? Like… When you were cuddled into my side just a few minutes ago? What were you thinking ‘bout, Art?”

Arthur’s face fell blank. “Do _not_ start with that.” His voice cracked, like a whip, and Alfred winced. It was the wrong thing to say, even during a fight like this.

“Hey,” Alfred hesitated. “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t really think before I said that.”

“Yes, I’m aware. You’ve grown quite adept at not considering my feelings. It’s a talent, truly.” Arthur turned and set to rearranging the centerpiece in the middle of their table. He shifted it in increments, a fraction to the left, a millimeter to the right. Just something to busy his hands. “Now, are you going to fess up, or shall I start _guessing_ what was in that box you brought home the other night?”

Alfred’s mouth went dry. Something _twanged_ in his gut. “Artie, I really don’t know what you’re—”

A loud buzzing cut the air between them. Arthur rolled his eyes, started patting down the pockets of his scrubs. He pulled out his phone, checked the caller ID, and scoffed. Alfred saw that as his chance to escape. He began slinking from the room as soon as Arthur took the call.

“You.” Arthur snapped his fingers, pointing. “Don’t dare move from that spot. We are not finished.” When he spoke next, it was into the receiver. “Good evening. …This is he.”

Alfred snorted. Arthur shot him a look. Defeated, he slumped into a kitchen chair. His feet propped up on the table, and he pretended not to notice when Arthur snapped at him again. He turned his attention to a loose thread on his pants and tried to think of a way out of this conversation. Preferably, a way out of any conversation, forever.

Meanwhile, Arthur’s conversation became laced with something fragile. “What’s that? …No, I… I don’t understand. When did this…? My god.”

Alfred perked up. That note in Arthur’s voice, it contained something too much like worry, or fear, to go ignored. Alfred watched as Arthur’s hand clamped across his mouth. His fingers trembled visibly, even from this distance. Alfred started to stand. Uncertainty dominated his burning tangle of emotions. His arm hovered at his side, as though to reach out and offer some comfort. But Arthur was too far away, in more ways than one.

“Artie…?” Alfred moved closer, wary. “Hey, everything okay? What’s going on?”

“Yes. Yes, of course. We’ll come right away. Thank you. Yes. You as well.”

When Arthur hung up, his eyes were wide, unreadable. His skin blanched pale. He went back to arranging the table piece, but he was doing it all wrong, picking at the flowers and digging long grooves into the ceramic vase. At last he spoke, his voice tear stung.

“It’s Matthew,” Arthur said. “He’s in the hospital.”


	8. Collateral

Alfred never minded hospitals before. Once upon a time, he had regular checkups. He felt proud when he passed his physical examinations with flying colors. Took his vaccinations like a champ. And whenever he broke an arm, or fractured an ankle, the doctor who took care of him was the same one who’d delivered him as a baby. That was back in Alabama, though, where the building was small, the staff was friendly, and they always encouraged you to take _two_ lollipops when all was said and done.

New York was different. The building was crowded, the clerks impatient, and the doctors only knew your name if they stared at their clipboards. Most the time, they didn’t even do that. The air reeked of chemicals and desperation. Beneath that, Alfred noticed a tinge of something fouler: _Guilt._ He sat at his brother’s bedside with his head hung low. A bitter feeling gnawed at his gut, pricked his eyes. He thought about reaching out to take Matthew’s hand, but how could he, when he was the one who’d sent his twin here in the first place? They were just lucky to get an actual room; some patients had to sleep in roll-away beds in the hall.

A flicker of movement caught Alfred’s attention. He winced when he saw, again, how distorted Mattie’s face looked. Bruises that were almost black ringed both of his eyes. One was swollen shut entirely, dappled with blood. His mouth was a mess of crimson goo, and his nose was plastered with gauze. Some sort of cast dominated his left side, indicating broken ribs, and his forearm sat in a splint. He’d been in and out of sleep since Alfred’s arrival and Alfred didn’t expect him to stay awake now. Even so, he moved in close.

“Mattie, Jesus fuck, what happened to you?” Alfred took in his twin’s appearance: The blonde hair rucked into a sweat-damp spray. The freckles half-obscured by dried blood. He didn’t have his glasses, but Alfred could picture them clearly. Matthew looked so much like him, after all. It could have been _him_ in this bed. A small, wicked voice chimed in— _It should have been you._

A delicate wheeze of breath. Then, “Al…? What’re you do… doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” Alfred laughed, too relieved by his brother’s voice to suppress the wild sound. “You saw me just a half hour ago. Don’t you remember? I’ve been here ever since the hospital called. How you doing?”

Matthew shifted, cringed, and settled back down. A wet gargle sounded in the back of his throat, and Alfred cringed to realize it must be blood. “Never better.”

“Okay, that was definitely sarcasm.” An uncertain smile lingered on Alfred’s lips. Something trembled under his skin, but he forced it down with another breath of laughter. It choked up near the end, and he ignored that too. “See, I’m getting better at recognizing it.”

Matthew didn’t respond. He closed his good eye and sighed, which turned into a spell of fragile huffs and coughs. Alfred hesitated before lurching halfway over the bed. Now, the shaking spilled into his fingers, distracting him when he touched his brother’s elbow.

“Mattie, hey, wait, wait, okay? I’m done playing around, I just… What _happened_ to you?” Alfred’s eyes darted between Matthew’s own. He grimaced a frown as he imagined the possibilities: Antonio running home to tell his precious partner about their exchange in the alley. Lovino pulling up in that shiny sportscar of his, ordering Matthew to _get in, culo._ Maybe he had Feliciano with him. Alfred wondered if he should start searching for the telltale signs of a brand.

“Thought I was…you.”

Alfred’s heart thudded, painful, in his chest. He couldn’t let Matthew know anything. He’d already gotten enough grief for being an oblivious getaway driver. Alfred shuddered to think what might happen if Matthew recognized the Italians’ _faces_.

“You thought you were me?” Alfred tried, with a desperate little hitch of laughter. “Come on, dude, that’s crazy. I know we look alike and all, but—”

“No… No…” Matthew’s chest rose on fractured inhales. “They did. They thought… thought I was you.” Just then, Matthew’s eyes grew so wide, even the swollen one opened, just a sliver. “Al… What did you _do?_ ”

 _What did you do?_ The accusation seared Alfred’s mind. He staggered back a few steps, choked on fumbled laughter. He tried to play it off. “Wh-What are you… You think I did this to you? No offense, bro, but you’re on a _ton_ of painkillers right now. Maybe you need to—”

“Quit pestering him.” Arthur came through the doorway, his pace brisk and expression hard. He strode right up to Matthew’s bed, carefully plumped his pillows, and sat where Alfred had previously. “Dear boy… You’re a mess, and I can’t find one competent professional in this place. We’d be better off if I patched you up myself, I swear it.”

Now, it was irritation that pricked Alfred’s eyes. He stepped between Arthur and Matthew. “I was just checking to see how my brother’s doing. Thanks.”

“If you cared so much, you wouldn’t have put him in here.” Arthur crossed one leg over the other, not bothering to meet Alfred’s eyes. “You’re welcome to move out of the way.”

“What?” Alfred narrowed his eyes, in time to catch Arthur shrug. He crouched down, so Arthur had no choice but to look at him. “No, seriously, tell me what you mean by that. ‘You wouldn’t have put him here.’ Do _you_ even know what you’re talking about?”

“You think I don’t have some idea what you’re up to?” Arthur’s gaze locked on Alfred’s. “Alfred, you’ve been sneaking around, asking for rides to obscure places, coming home beaten or bloodied or otherwise disordered. You’re out late on days that you don’t even _work_.”

Fear tangled up into Alfred’s anger. He really had been so _sloppy._ He held tight to the reigns of his rage, hoping it would carry him through. “Right, because first of all, you’re entitled to knowing my _work schedule_ for some reason. Oh, and I’m also not allowed to have a social life outside of you. Cool. Go on.”

“I keep an eye on you because I care about you,” Arthur snapped. “Evidently, more than _you_ do.”

Alfred laughed, too abruptly. “Nice try, dude. You know no one loves me as much as I love me.”

“Fine then. I keep an eye on you because I care about _Matthew_ , and you’re clearly not above throwing him under the bus to feed whatever reckless fantasies you’ve been indulging in lately.”

“You think I did this on purpose?” Alfred hesitated before correcting himself. “You think I did this _at all?_ ”

“Do not. Play dumb with me, Al.” Arthur sat forward, eyes sharp. “It may work for everyone else you know. You might fool Matthew, and your parents, and you might even fool that bloody Russian you fawn over—”

“Okay, from now on, my questions are rhetorical,” Alfred said, straightening up. “I don’t want you to answer them.”

“Oh, no, I am _cruising_ now.” Arthur swung out of his seat, until he stood nose-to-nose with Alfred. “You’ve gotten yourself into some shady business, and now your loved ones are suffering the consequences. Look at your brother, Alfred. Do you even _care?_ If you don’t feel you owe me an explanation, fine. But you at _least_ owe Matthew. You know they’re trying to keep him here for _five days?_ And who, do you presume, will pay that bill? That is _thousands_ of dollars per _night._ ”

“I can come home,” Matthew said, but both Arthur and Alfred silenced him with a firm, “ _No._ ”

“I’ll pay for it,” Alfred said. “I did an extra job for someone. I can cover the hospital bill.”

“But of course, as though I don’t know about your little _side jobs._ It can’t be weed anymore, Al. Weed doesn’t get your family members beaten half-senseless. Not to mention, the car.” Arthur’s cheeks flushed pink with wrath. He stepped forward, driving Alfred back. “So, I’ll ask again, what the _hell_ was in those boxes you brought home the other night?”

Alfred stumbled back. His eyes darted to the doorway, to make sure no one was listening. His mouth went dry. He barely managed, “You need to shut up.”

Arthur spat a humorless laugh. “I’m sure you’d love that. Just like you love danger, and unrealistic movie heroes, and those _guns_ you’ve been stashing under your mattress.” Alfred’s heart stopped. Arthur seemed to notice because he pushed forward once more. “That’s right. I know. And I’m almost _certain_ the Italians don’t share your affinity for them.”

 _The guns. The Italians._ Alfred’s face went hot. He put out his arms to stop Arthur: Stop him from walking closer, stop him from talking, from _thinking_. He was too smart, and too _loud._ “Stop, Arthur, no, fucking, please—”

“And we didn’t even finish our conversation about Ludwig. What have you done to draw the police to our _home,_ Alfred? God, it’s something to do with that Russian. It’s a bad influence, who’s tricked you into some ungodly business. He’s not your _friend._ You know that, surely? Friends don’t convince friends to join—Whatever this is. The bloody… _mob?_ ”

That word. Alfred knew it was an exaggeration, there was no way Arthur could have truly figured it out. Still, his chest clenched, painfully warm. He wheeled forward, thumbs digging into Arthur’s biceps. Arthur shouted, tried to shove him away.

“Arthur—”

“No,” Arthur snarled, attempting to wrest himself from Alfred’s grip. “You, unhand me. I don’t condone—”

Alfred shook him, eliciting another series of gasps and growls. “Arthur, you need to shut up—”

“You are _done_ avoiding consequences, Al, you’re lucky if I don’t call your mother about this whole ordeal. Or, better yet—”

“ _Arthur—_ ”

“—have you confess to Ludwig what you’re involved in, as soon as I figure it—” 

Alfred jerked Arthur in against him. His hand clamped, hard, over the other man’s mouth. Something muffled against his palm, so he held on tighter. His eyes returned to the doorway, wide and full of apprehension. “Art, you seriously, seriously _need_ to shut up.”

Arthur struggled. Then, he noticed the look on Alfred’s face. The _fear._ His shoulders slumped, until he stood slack in Alfred’s arms. Alfred hesitated. Then, when he felt confident Arthur wouldn’t hound the issue, he let go. They stood in silence for a minute. Arthur smoothed out his own hair. When he spoke again, it was in a whisper.

“Al. You need to tell me what’s going on.”

“I will,” Alfred lied. “Not here.”

Arthur watched him a while longer. At last, he nodded, averting his gaze. Alfred mirrored the action, studying the scuffs on the toes of his shoes. He’d need some new ones soon, he thought, and immediately chastised himself for his greed. First, he had to pay for Matthew’s hospital stay. His heart panged. He couldn’t tell if it was from the guilt, or from the financial loss. That only made him guiltier.

“My heart! Oh, just _look_ at you. Dear Mathieu…” A new presence entered the room. Alfred and Arthur snapped to attention. Alfred expected a nurse. He was greeted by French fretting instead. It took a moment, but he recognized the extravagantly dressed blonde hovering at Matthew’s side. Apparently so did Arthur because he sighed.

“I’m sorry, are you on the visitation list?” Arthur brushed Alfred out of his way to approach the newcomer. “I thought the hospital might be a bit more vigilant about keeping _filth_ away from the patients. You’ll contaminate them.”

“I have tutored this boy in _le langage de l'amour_ for the past three years, _andouille._ The least I can do is visit him on his sickbed.” Francis Bonnefoy settled a vase on Matthew’s bedside table. It contained a single yellow rose, “for well wishings,” he informed them. Alfred hardly paid attention. His gaze slipped to Matthew’s face: Battered, bruised, and unconscious once more.

_If you cared so much, you wouldn’t have put him here._

Alfred squeezed his eyes shut. It wasn’t true. He _did_ care about Matthew. Anyone who knew him could tell how much he loved his twin brother. There was no way Alfred could have anticipated this. It was an accident. Unpredictable as it was unavoidable. It didn’t matter _how_ much he loved his family. He couldn’t have prevented this outcome. Right? He _couldn’t_ have. All he could do now, if he really wanted to prove how much he cared, was make things _right._ He headed for the door.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Arthur asked. Alfred glanced back to see him holding Francis’s sleeve, while the other spat French insults. Arthur scowled and grumbled something in return, not that Alfred could translate. He turned again.

“I’m going to fix this,” Alfred said. He was almost tired of hearing himself say it, and he couldn’t imagine Arthur loved the repetition either. He left before anyone could voice their doubt. He had enough uncertainties floating around his own head, he didn’t need any more. No, what Alfred needed was a lesson in _obedience._

At last, he was ready to accept it.

*

Alfred’s search led him to a ritzy nightclub on the edge of Manhattan. In the end, it had been Raivis who’d tipped him off regarding the boss’s whereabouts. It was obvious the boy hadn’t wanted to tell him, but he hadn’t wanted to piss him off either. And, tonight, Alfred’s capacity for being pissed off was _very_ high.

Headlights streaked past beneath his sneakers. He hardly noticed. His mouth hung open as he stared up, up at the towering building before him. His fists tensed in the pockets of Ivan’s coat. It still carried his scent. The men at the door must have recognized the article too because they let him in without a word. His heart picked up its pace, even as he forced his stride to steadiness. He pushed into a roaring crowd.

At first, Alfred couldn’t see anything. His vision was obscured by clustered bodies, by _heat._ He raked a hand through his hair and, already, sweat molded it into place. All around him, music blared, turning his mind to a fuzzy haze of sound. The Old Bear was here. Ivan was _here._ Alfred couldn’t imagine him moving on the dance floor or crowding the performers on stage. No, if his boss was here at all, he had to be…

“Pardon me.” Alfred rerouted, shrugging his way through a hot tangle of limbs. He squinted in the direction of the bar. Surprisingly, few patrons occupied the long row of velvet-lined stools. Alfred figured that was because most the partygoers were already drunk. The sleek black counter shimmered under dull white lights. And there, with his shoulders rigid and his head propped heavily in his palm, sat the Old Bear.

“Hey. Hey!” Alfred’s voice drowned beneath a swell of music and cheers. He dodged one careless dancer, shrugged past another, and tried again. “Hey, Ivan! Yo!”

Ivan stiffened. He raised his head without turning around. His fingers tensed around a bottle of vodka. Alfred called out once more.

“Hey, Ivan, it’s me. Can you hear me? It’s Alfred. Hey!” Alfred tripped past the final throng of people and caught himself against a barstool. “Hey, sorry to chase you down during your time off, I was just wondering if we could—”

Ivan glanced sideways. Something glinted in his pupils. The rest of his expression remained impassive. He held up a finger, and Alfred’s words caught. He watched as Ivan tilted his bottle over the rim of a shot glass.

“Oh, sure, take your drink,” Alfred began, and paused when Ivan offered the glass out to him. He accepted it, uncertain. “Okay… Yeah, thanks. You wanna pour yourself one too, so we can toast or some—”

Ivan pressed the bottle to his lips and drank. His throat worked around a swift series of gulps. Alfred stared on, bewildered, and a little impressed. He switched the shot glass to his opposite hand, opening his mouth to speak. Just then, Ivan wrenched the bottle back with a hiss.

“Now,” Ivan said, his voice ragged. His accent sounded thicker than usual. He rested the empty bottle on the bar top. “Now you can start running the mouth.”

“You’re having a rough night too, huh?” Alfred tested a smile, but the corners of his mouth felt heavy, so he sipped his drink instead. His face twisted up in disgust. He set the vodka aside and moved closer. “Well, hey, why don’t we talk about it? ‘Cause, I mean, I’ve got a lot I’d like to—”

“You are in hospital.” Ivan frowned. His eyes unfocused for a moment, then zoned back in. He corrected himself as an afterthought, “The hospital.”

Alfred blinked. “What?”

Ivan pointed at him with a steady hand. “You are in the hospital. Toris said this to me. He brought to me, photographs. You…” Ivan swallowed, fell silent. He beckoned Alfred forward with two fingers. His voice dropped, sour and low. “You are a dead man. And now, you haunt me.”

“You thought that was me…?” Alfred let out a slow breath. He leaned in so close, it mingled with Ivan’s own. Then, laughter gripped him. “What? Dude, no. That was my brother, Matthew.” He clarified, “We’re twins.”

Ivan watched him, guarded. “You have a twin.”

“Yeah, dude, you met him.”

“I did not.”

“You did! You so did. He came into the restaurant with me one day. You know, when Lovino went apeshit and pulled a knife and all?”

“This is so?” Ivan sat back. His face caught the light to emphasize the shadows beneath his eyes. “I do not remember him.”

“Yeah, that’s just how it goes with Mattie.” Alfred chuckled, which lilted off into awkward quiet. He shuffled forward, straddling the stool to Ivan’s right. “Uh, he’s pretty easy to overlook, honestly. Which is why it’s so freaking weird that…they….targeted him.”

Alfred’s gaze shifted to Ivan. The older man returned the look. Sighed. “If there are two of you in this world, I will be needing a stronger drink.”

“Why didn’t you tell me something like this would happen?” Alfred pleaded. Exasperation crept beneath his skin when Ivan returned his attention to his bottle. He propped both elbows on the counter, leaned closer, and repeated himself. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did tell you. You do not listen to words.” Grim lines creased the corners of Ivan’s mouth. “I thought a more physical lesson might be necessary. And now you’ve gotten it.”

“ _You’re_ the one who sent me after this guy—”

“No.” Ivan stopped him with a finger. “I sent you after a nobody, like yourself, but you do not follow orders. You are reckless. You are arrogant. You are a danger to yourself, a danger to the people you love, and you would be a danger to my organization if I invited you into it. You have proven this to me, and now, I believe the Italians have proven it to you.”

Alfred’s brows drew tight together. He dropped his voice, serious. “Okay, so maybe _I_ deserve retaliation. But my brother doesn’t. Matthew didn’t _do_ anything.” His fingers clenched. “This isn’t _fair—_ ”

“ _This is your fault._ ” Ivan slammed a fist on the counter, shaking nearby glasses. Alfred startled. A breathless silence hung around him. Ivan seemed to notice, closed his eyes, and sighed. He continued with forced calm. “You brought this upon yourself. I only hope it scares you away, because it appears I failed to do that.” He tried to take another drink, then remembered he couldn’t, and gazed into the empty bottle. “I’ve already made peace with my failure. Perhaps, Rat, you should do the same.”

“You said you were impressed.” Alfred’s voice sounded too small. He couldn’t help it. Ivan had praised him. He had been impressed. Why would he have said that if he didn’t mean it? How much of what he was saying now was just a blatant lie? “You _couldn’t_ have been expecting this, not completely, or else it wouldn’t have shocked you so badly that you ended up drowning yourself in booze at some shitty nightclub.”

“You are right. I did not expect this.” His eyes flicked to Alfred’s. “I expected you to die. And afterward, I would apologize to my business partners for your impudence while they commented on the color of your casket. Which would be closed, by the way.”

“That’s a grim fantasy.” Alfred cut him a half smile. “But if you thought I was gonna die, why bother giving me all that money? Why tell me to invest in a security system? Why did any of that matter if you figured I was just gonna fuckin’ kick it?”

“I said I expected it,” Ivan said, with a solemn bitterness unlike any Alfred had heard from him before. “Not that I wanted it.”

“You were impressed,” he repeated, with confidence. “You see potential in me. I know you do. I intimidated a guy at the top of the chain. I dodged a bullet, _literally._ I talked my way out of it when you sent me to Ludwig’s house, and I talked my way out of it when he showed up at mine.”

“And what are you trying to talk your way into now?” Ivan looked up. “I am not so easily charmed, Ratboy.”

"Aren't you?" Alfred’s smile weakened, soft around the edges. “I know I haven’t been very trustworthy. I know… I know I’ve acted kinda brash, going above my rank, all of that. But that’s _initiative._ Right? And, and maybe it’s misguided. But it’s a strong base to build on! I’ve got what it takes. I just need a little more direction. And I think you know that.”

Ivan watched him for a long interval of seconds. The music of the nightclub blared on. “You need a collar with a little bell on it. That is what you need.”

“So, _train me_ then.” He tried not to cringe when he said it, despite the flush that threatened his skin. “I should have listened sooner. I get that now. Okay? I do. Maybe it’s too late, I don’t know. But I’m listening _now._ ”

“Has this little mishap shocked you into reality?” Ivan’s gaze held steady, as though the conversation alone had sobered him up. “Do you _finally_ understand what you are involving yourself in here?”

“Why did you let me fuck up so many times?” Alfred turned to face him fully, elbows braced against the bar. “If you knew this was _so_ dangerous, and you were _so_ terrified of something going wrong with me, or your organization, or _whatever_ —Why did you keep giving me so many chances?”

Ivan shrugged, heavily. “With the path you were on, you were bound to offend the wrong people eventually. I decided to let it happen. They’d come after you, you’d learn your lesson firsthand, and you’d finally get your head out of the clouds. You would back down. Move out of the city, perhaps. Save yourself. This is what I thought would happen.” Ivan’s voice softened in volume but hardened in tone. Again, he avoided Alfred’s eyes. “I thought life would give you all the training you needed. Why would I waste my time with it?”

“But now there’s bad blood between you and the Italians. They think you told me to do all that stuff, and they’re _pissed_. Just look at what they did to Mattie.”

“No one associates us that closely.” Ivan sounded annoyed, as though he were explaining something very simple to someone old enough to know better. “You were an idiot child doing idiot things. If someone decided you needed a spanking, they could do it themselves. They would not touch me.”

Alfred felt a twinge of sadness. He’d thought he was a part of something. He’d thought Ivan had honestly granted him access to a world so much bigger than himself. And what did Ivan _mean_ , he was a child? Raivis was a much bigger child than Alfred. This wasn’t _right._ Alfred could do better. He could prove his worth. He was just never given a chance because…because he was never really _in_ in the first place. But, if truth be told, he was surprised Ivan had confessed this much to begin with. It must be the drink, he realized. Maybe he didn’t mean any of this stuff. It could just be the vodka talking, right?

“So, what if you let me in? Really let me in?” Alfred moved in close. His breaths picked up, to match the pace of his heart. “If I start _actually_ representing you, and following your orders, what then? If I fuck something up—”

“Alfred, I will tell you this once.” Ivan stooped down, so his nose grazed Alfred’s own. Alfred was too surprised to draw back. He focused hard on Ivan’s features to keep them from blurring. “If you begin work for me, real work, there will be no more fuck-ups. I will be invested in you. I will break you down to nothing and fix you up again before you are ever allowed to handle my affairs.” Violet eyes flicked between each of Alfred’s own. Slowly, he settled back. That didn’t make his presence any less threatening. “I could not get this across to you the first few times we spoke. Now, you have seen what happens when you ignore me. And I will say, your brother? He got off _easy._ ”

“Guide me,” Alfred insisted. “I’m ready to listen now. Don’t just leave me in the dark here. _Help_ me do better.”

“Why would I do this?” Ivan flagged down the bartender, who brought him another bottle of vodka without a word. Ivan set to opening it. “You think I have nothing better to do with my time?”

“If I’m gonna be under fire from the fucking Italian mob, I need to know how to defend myself. How to defend the people I love.” Passion burned under Alfred’s words, fanning them into something bright. “This isn’t about glory or money or power anymore, or maybe it is, but even _more_ than that, I…” Alfred hesitated. It was the last time. From here on out, he had to be certain of every decision. Every word needed a purpose. He needed to be _sure._ He clenched his teeth, sat up straight. Renewed confidence flooded his body and he felt the moment the space around him became his to command.

“I want revenge.”

“Revenge…” Ivan mulled over the word, as though it were a new piece of vocabulary for him. Apparently, he appreciated the taste, because he shrugged a shoulder in allowance. “I am familiar with revenge.”

“So, you’ll help me get it?”

“No.”

“But you—” Alfred’s face fell. He lurched out of his seat. Ivan caught him by the shoulder without even touching him. His gloved hand rested in the space between them, maintaining some unseen barrier. He waited for Alfred to sit, then lowered his palm to the countertop.

“Your ‘revenge’ will dig two fresh graves. No. That is something you must pursue alone, if you are foolish enough to pursue it at all.”

“Is this your way of telling me not to do it?” Alfred asked.

“Would you listen, if it were?” Ivan offered a pale smile. It flickered out of existence. “I am not going to stick out my neck for a thing so little. That is all I am saying.”

“Oh. Okay.” Alfred remembered his vodka shot and dragged it toward himself. It smelled like rubbing alcohol. “So then, how’re you gonna be helping me, exactly?”

Ivan hummed in consideration. “You were speaking of protection, yes?”

“From the Italians, sure.”

“They have given me some grief over the years.” Ivan shot him a meaningful look. “I am thinking you know this by now.”

“Yeah, and it seems like they’re taking it out on _me_ for some reason.” Alfred crossed one ankle over the other, balancing on the edge of his seat. “What about it?”

“I will not play accomplice to your games. No. I am not conjuring up new plots and schemes. But…” Ivan tilted his head, swept a hand between them. “You might be able to help me with things I already have in the fire.”

Alfred felt a little flutter of hope. He caged it, allowing suspicion to take its place. “This sounds an awful lot like last time, when you did the whole, ‘Wanna join the Bratva, _my man?_ I have a job for you. But oh, actually, that job was a trick so here’s the actual job. Except that wasn’t what I wanted either, and you were never actually affiliated with me so now there’s basically a hit out on you, and you’re getting no protection, and—’” He stopped when he noticed Ivan’s expression. “Well? I’m just saying.”

“Last time, you were not working with me directly. I think you will find my presence to be very…motivating.”

Alfred shivered. He didn’t know why. So often, he associated Ivan with the cold. Now, the promise in The Old Bear’s words sent a rush of something _hot_ through his blood. “Motivating…how?”

Ivan smiled. He turned away, after that, and poured himself a fresh shot. He held it out to Alfred without looking at him, and Alfred scrambled to retrieve his own. They toasted with a delicate _clink_ , inaudible above the din. Ivan downed his in one smooth motion. Alfred pinched his nose and did the same.

“Are you only saying all this because you’re drunk?” Alfred asked. “And it’s making you, like, better disposed toward me or something?”

“Are you still wearing my coat?”

Alfred flushed, sinking down into the fabric. “Yeah. So? It’s warm.”

Ivan chuckled so quietly Alfred would have missed it if he hadn’t committed that sound to memory and known what to look for. He lifted his bottle again, to pour them both another drink. “Not warmer than this.”

They took their shots, Alfred with a bit more confidence, and Ivan poured yet another. Time lapsed into waves of fluid pleasure, and Ivan was right. It was warm. Alfred ended up shedding his coat by the fourth round. He suspected Ivan was on his fifth, though; not to mention all that he’d consumed before. Still, when he spoke, his voice did not slur. It was gruff, his accent heavy but, if anything, Ivan just sounded more himself.

“Alfred.”

“Yeah?” Alfred stifled a hiccup.

“How do you feel about ice cream?”

“Ice cream?” Alfred wondered, but Ivan did not offer further explanation. It did not seem an answer would come tonight. Perhaps this was his first exercise: A practice in patience. With vodka sliding sluggish through his veins, and The Old Bear sitting just beside him, Alfred thought it was almost easy. He could wait for answers, just this once.


	9. Ice Cream

Kips Bay was like its own tidy corner of Manhattan. Definitely still crowded, definitely still urban, but the side streets contained pleasant pockets of repose. Brick rowhouses lined the curb. Alfred watched them creep past overtop his steering wheel. All around him, the ambient repetition of _Pop Goes the Weasel_. What could he say? He had a certain appreciation for tradition.

“Can you believe the whole time I’ve been in New York, I’ve only seen Lady Liberty once?” Alfred spoke over his shoulder, but his eyes didn’t move from the road. “Before moving here, I thought, hey, this is New Freaking York, baby. The Big Apple. The City That Never Sleeps. Y’know? I thought, I’m gonna be surrounded by history, gonna be sightseeing twenty-four-seven. I’ll live on the water one day. It’ll be sweet as hell. But nope. No way. I saw that beautiful green chick _once_ coming into the city, and that was it. Some American dream I’m living, huh.”

He made eye contact with a flock of teenagers walking toward them. His eyebrows raised in question just as he started to pull over. The teens made it a point to ignore him, so he kept cruising. In his left hand, a popsicle that was supposed to look like superman melted down its stick.

“I actually went to an ice cream place here one time.” Alfred licked the backs of his knuckles clean. Popped one of Superman’s gumball eyes into his mouth. “They had some crazy flavors. Something like a, a candy corn vodka…thing? You might’ve liked it. Made Artie gag, though.”

A soft grunt sounded behind him. Alfred perked in his seat. That was his first sign of acknowledgement since they’d started making their rounds this morning. He smiled to himself and adjusted the rearview mirror so he could just barely make out the tail end of a scarf.

“What do you think, boss?” Alfred bit down, wincing when the cold stung his front teeth. His gaze returned to the mirror. If he leaned just so, he could spot that pale, hooked nose. Those large, gloved hands thumbing deliberately through stacks of bills. That mess of silver-beige locks, rumpled into curls by a restless night. Some hushed instinct inside of him made Alfred want to reach for a comb, and he shoved it back down. That was Arthur’s influence. “If you were living anywhere else in the world, if not New York, where would you be?”

Alfred waited for a response. And to his credit, he did wait quite a fair stretch of time. Beyond his windshield, people chattered and jogged and walked their dogs. One person appeared to be walking some kind of rodent on a harness, and Alfred wondered if he should approach them directly. They seemed like the type to buy what he was selling. Absently, he reached for the radio. Then he remembered it was already _playing,_ regurgitating that old-fashioned ice cream truck song. He’d learned to tune it out. Just like, he supposed, Ivan was tuning _him_ out.

“Don’t suppose you’d wanna, like, head back to the motherland or somethin’?” Alfred idly turned the steering wheel, pulling up to a spacious park. “I’m just asking ‘cause, well, I guess I’d wanna fly out to California. See Hollywood. Live with all those people just…chasing a dream. It’s romantic. Oh, man, and the _ocean._ I’ve only ever seen it on postcards, and—Let me put it to you this way: If it’s really as blue as people say my eyes are, then I’m _never_ leaving the beach. Like, not ever.”

“You have customers.”

Alfred turned to the open window on his right. A mother and two young boys waved, beckoning him to pull over. But those weren’t the customers Ivan meant. Behind them, a man with wide, red-rimmed eyes shuffled shyly to and fro. He wore an oversized hoodie that didn’t stop him from scratching at his forearms or twisting at his hair. Alfred’s eyes lingered on him, wondering what sort of treat he might be after.

Today, the question, “Did you mean the coke?” had a completely different meaning.

“Hi, excuse me?”

Alfred smiled brightly as he stepped up to the window. The woman standing there returned the smile, almost apologetically, as she fought to hold her children near. They babbled excitedly in a language that was not quite sensical and pointed to different images plastered on the van. Alfred leaned out to see what they were.

“Hiya! You guys seeing anything you like?” Alfred laughed amusedly as one boy whirled from his mother’s grip.

“Everything!” one little boy demanded, and the other, slightly younger, giggled.

“Everything,” the younger agreed, pronouncing the word with effort.

“Whoa, _everything?_ ” Alfred’s eyes grew in playful bewilderment. The mother breathed a tremulous laugh.

“I’m sorry about them,” she said, her face worn despite her smile. “You can just grab whatever’s cheap. They’ll eat it.”

“Oh, no, it’s okay! You little dudes want everything, yeah?” Alfred laughed again when the boys agreed. Their mother bit her lip, rounding them in again before apprehensively touching her purse. Alfred gave a little shake of his head, assuring her that she need not pay for everything on the menu. He had another idea. “Y’know what, it’s still in the experimental stages, but I think I’ve got just the thing for ya.”

Violet eyes questioned him when he ducked his head back inside. Alfred flashed another reassuring smile, and Ivan must have decided he could trust that expression—That, or he just didn’t _care_ what Alfred did at this point—because he returned to the papers before him.

“Okay, dudes, I’m really not supposed to be handing these out because they’re so totally top secret and all, but…” Alfred rummaged through the freezer for a couple of Bomb Pops. He peeled the wrapper off the red, white, and blue popsicles before offering them out for examination. “What do ya think?”

The first boy’s nose crinkled. “We want more than _that._ ”

“More,” his brother chimed in.

“Well, now, hang on a sec. Don’t you guys _see?_ This popsicle right here…” Alfred turned them in his hands, marveling at the frozen treats. “This is a mix of all the different ice cream flavors in the world!”

“Really?” the younger brother appeared dazed, looking to the eldest for guidance.

“That isn’t true,” the older said, uncertain. “It can’t have everything.”

“Is so,” Alfred said. “Why do you think it has so many colors? But you don’t believe me? Go ahead and check it out.” He extended the Bomb Pops to both children, who accepted them with guarded enthusiasm. “Go on, try it. You can taste all the colors of the rainbow in there.”

The youngest took the first taste. His face lit up when he said, “Wow!”

“Good?” Alfred beamed. “Try closing your eyes. I bet you can taste a whole banana split!”

There was a moment of hesitation, then a chorus of woops and cheers as the boys discovered _all the new flavors_ they could taste. Alfred laughed at some of the ones they proposed, like “hot dogs” and “Grandma’s rice pudding.” But something warm nudged his heart. It was refreshing to encourage such powerful imaginations. Now, if only Arthur and Matthew would play along with him, too.

“That’ll be four dollars for ya, miss,” Alfred said, dropping his voice confidentially. He smiled when she did.

“Thank you,” the woman said, handing over her payment. “These boys…they can get a little…insistent.”

“Hey, it’s no problem. I remember being that age, raising hell with my brother.” A flicker of sadness when Alfred remembered Mattie, all bundled up in his hospital bed. His smile wavered. “Anyway, I guess I learned a few things from the grownups that had to learn to appease _us_.”

The woman offered a final smile. She turned, ushering her children back toward the park. “Alright, boys, go on now. Run and show Mimi what you got.”

Alfred nearly ducked back inside the window. Then, he realized the woman hadn’t left. The boys ran ahead of her, shouting and giggling all the while, and she stayed.

“Now, um…” The woman tilted her head, appraisingly. “Do you have anything for me?”

“Huh? Oh, sure! You want an Everything Pop too?” Alfred cracked open the freezer and paused when the woman’s expression dipped. “Oh, er… Well, you tell me if you want something more candy-like or sour or sweet or… Whatcha lookin’ for here?”

“Oh… I just mean,” she dropped her voice and lifted her tired smile. “Anything _good?_ ”

Alfred stood still a moment. A pulse of realization in his heart, even as he refused to acknowledge it. “The cookie sandwiches are pretty good.”

Beside him, Ivan swore. He rose from the back of the truck and shrugged Alfred aside. Alfred looked between him and the woman, frantic. Ivan’s voice dropped, sounding like gravel falling on dry cement. It took Alfred a minute to realize he was speaking Russian, and the woman responded in kind. Then, a little white baggy appeared pinched between Ivan’s fingers. Alfred only spotted it for a second, because then it was gone, and the woman disappeared with it. His mouth hung open, wordless.

“You were doing so well this morning.” Ivan sighed, shouldering his way back to his table. “I started to think. I thought, this might be a job even Alfred cannot fail. Why must you go and make me second guess?”

Alfred swallowed, shaking away a jolt of surprise. Beneath that, a vague feeling of shame. “Yeah, I mean sure, selling drugs out of an ice cream truck was easy enough. But that was when I was spending the morning selling to homeless dudes who already looked half-high or cracked out. Guys like—” Alfred turned, searching for the man in the hoodie, but he was gone. The corners of his mouth tightened. “That lady had a family. I mean, she had _kids_.”

“Don’t you have a family?”

“But—”

“We will head home.” Ivan settled in his seat, folding a few more bills into the mix. “This is enough for today.”

Alfred frowned. He slinked over to the driver’s seat and flicked off his music. The silence was worse, but maybe Ivan would feel obligated to help him fill it on the drive back. A couple approached the window in the corner of Alfred’s eye.

“We’re closed,” he called, and pulled off the curb. Never once did he think driving an ice cream truck would bum him out so badly. But then, the ice cream wasn’t really the point, was it?

Alfred wove through New York traffic, thoughts bouncing between conversation topics he dared not broach. He didn’t think he could shoulder another disappointment, if Ivan didn’t answer. So, he decided to wait. He was idling at a red light when two heavy hands settled on his shoulders. Alfred startled. He hadn’t heard Ivan approach. The man moved like a ghost.

“Tell me what you are thinking.”

Alfred laughed, weakly. “You wanna talk to me now?”

“I like to know the men who work for me.” Ivan’s thumbs pressed under Alfred’s shoulder blades, and Alfred stiffened. Someone behind him honked. He cursed, waved, and drove through the newly changed light, as Ivan’s voice bled into his ear. “Besides, it is important to check in. Make sure you’re not considering running off.”

“Wouldn’t your job kinda be easier,” Alfred asked, “if I did?”

“You had your chance.”

Ivan’s grip tightened. He held on to Alfred just a little too long, and Alfred’s heart caught up in his chest. _He’d had his chance._ The finality in that statement made his skin go cold. It was something he’d known, something he’d been all too eager to accept, and yet, said out loud like that, the words ached within him. They could become a cage if he wasn’t careful.

“Do you think I can do this?” Alfred asked. His voice had gone quiet. He nearly dropped his eyes to his lap before he remembered he was driving and chewed his cheek instead.

Ivan stayed silent. At first, Alfred thought he was ignoring him again. Then, that leather grasp eased up from Alfred’s shoulders and he replied, “Do _you_ think you can do this?”

“I asked you first.”

“Your answer will heavily influence mine.” A sigh as Ivan withdrew. “Alfred, you delivered cocaine to a police officer and put a bullet in one of the biggest players in the Italian mob. If selling ice cream is where you draw the line, I have serious concerns.”

Alfred’s mouth quirked into something that was not quite a smile. “No, I’m not asking because _I’m_ feeling uncertain or insecure or anything. I just want to know if _you_ have the same faith in me as I do.”

“There is still time for you to prove yourself or shit the bed.” Ivan’s image flickered in the rearview mirror. Alfred adjusted it to see him better. “I don’t like to make premature judgements.”

“What does it feel like?” Alfred asked, returning his eyes to the road. “The whole…drug thing, I mean. Must feel pretty okay to make people abandon their lives and families and stuff.”

There was a pause as Ivan considered his words. Alfred felt a flurry of disappointment when Ivan walked away from him. “Depends on the drug.”

“Okay, so, like, cocaine then.”

“Alfred.”

Alfred’s chest clenched. He knew that tone. “Want me to shut up?”

“No.” Alfred had not been expecting that reply, so soft it was almost tender. Then, Ivan added, “You like superheroes. Which one is your favorite?”

“My favorite superhero?” Alfred blinked at the traffic ahead. Another response he had not anticipated. He thought a moment. “I’ve always loved Captain America. Superman’s cool too. Just, like, the really good dudes. They stand for justice and stick up for the little guys that can’t protect themselves.”

“And Captain America, Superman…they fight thieves, and murderers, and crooks. This is correct?”

“Well, yeah, that’s kinda what they do. Stop the bad guys and make the world a better place and whatnot.”

“What do you think your favorite heroes would say to you, if they saw you like this? Dealing drugs… Working for the Mafia.” Ivan’s voice changed locations, so Alfred could tell he was facing him now. “They would fight you then, no?”

Alfred hesitated. “I don’t know. They probably wouldn’t really care. I mean, I’m not some bioengineered supervillain or a vampire or, like, evil incarnate. I’m just some guy trying to make a living, and stand up for a cause I believe in.” He snorted a laugh, turned onto a familiar street, and said, “If anything, I think they would respect my profession.”

“What _cause_ are you standing up for, exactly?” Ivan asked, a bit of humor in his voice.

“You sure ask a lot of questions for a guy I don’t know anything about.”

“Ask me anything.”

“Okay…” Alfred raised his eyebrows. He could ask why Ivan got into the business. He could ask how many people he’d killed, or why everyone acted so afraid of him, or what age he was when he first earned the title of Boss. All these questions burned in his mind. Instead, he opened his mouth and said, “What’s your favorite thing to do? Like, when are you at your happiest?”

A long stretch of silence followed. Alfred smiled to himself when he glanced in the mirror. Ivan was sitting still, his gaze turned inward as though reflecting on a very difficult question. He hadn’t been expecting it. Alfred wondered how often people asked the Old Bear questions like this. Innocent ones.

“I like to garden.” Ivan’s voice sounded soft. Alfred’s heart pulsed to hear the near uncertainty written in those words. It was the only time he’d heard Ivan seem to doubt himself. “I think this is when I am happiest.”

“You garden?” Alfred tried to imagine it: The Old Bear, a mob boss, knelt down to nurture a patch of damp soil, wearing a wide-rimmed hat to block out the sun and thick gloves to protect his hands. Or maybe he didn’t bother with gloves; that would explain why his palms were so rough to the touch. “That’s cool! My grandma used to have a really big garden, but she’s old now, so they had to cut the size down for her. She pretty much just grows cherry tomatoes now. What about you? Are you more of a flower or vegetable guy?”

“Your bus stop is coming up,” Ivan pointed out. Alfred chuckled at the change in topic. Ivan really didn’t like talking about himself, did he? Alfred pocketed that question for later.

“Alright, here we go.” Alfred pulled up to the curb and threw the truck into park. A driver behind him laid on their horn as they skirted past. “Jeez, maybe _they_ should try gardening.” A hand on Alfred’s shoulder startled him around. He pressed a hand over his heart, laughing. “You _gotta_ stop sneaking up on me like that, boss.”

“This is your cut.” Ivan offered out a crisp stack of bills. Alfred blinked, dazed. Every time he thought he was getting used to seeing _that much cash,_ Ivan went and proved him wrong. He reached out to accept. Ivan withdrew before he had the chance. “You will not be taking it home with you, this time.”

“What?” Alfred started, then clamped his mouth shut. He wasn’t going to argue. Ivan had a reason for this. He always had a reason. Alfred decided he would at least _listen_ before he complained. Ivan gave a nod of approval.

“I noticed you still have not bought yourself a security system.” Ivan tucked the money inside his coat. Alfred had been sad to part with it but, on Ivan, the long, beige material looked _right._ “Someone will be by tomorrow to install one. You have the day off. Your task is to let them in so they can do their job.”

Alfred forced the corner of his mouth upwards. His stomach growled, as empty as his pockets. Even so, he managed, “You must really care about me, putting in all this work for my protection and whatnot.”

“I believe a man should feel safe in his home.” Ivan turned to gather his things from the back of the truck. “Only a coward will attack someone on his own property. But the mob is full of cowards.”

“Right. Well. Let me grab something from the freezer, so I’m not going home empty-handed, at least.”

Ivan left him, wordless. Alfred stretched, dusted his hands on his pants—He’d washed them not long ago, but they still felt so _dirty_ —and cracked open the freezer. A wash of cool air chilled his face. When the fog cleared from his glasses, he set to searching through the piles of frozen treats. He glimpsed Snow Cones and Drumsticks and Screwballs. But there, hidden in the leftmost wall, Alfred recognized a separate compartment. His heart went quiet in his chest. If he wasn’t going to get paid with cash, he thought, he at least deserved…. Slowly, his eyes shifted to the rear of the truck where Ivan stood with his back turned. Alfred’s gaze returned to the freezer. Carefully, he reached inside.

Blunt nails flaked at the ice chips clinging to the compartment door. After a slight resistance, the door popped open. Alfred glanced back again. Ivan still paid him no mind. For perhaps the first time, Alfred felt grateful for the negligence. His breathing accelerated, wafting back into his face in white puffs of mist. And then his sights locked onto a different white substance. Without thinking, he snatched a baggy up into his sleeve, just like he’d done on a game night so long ago. Only, this time, the Old Bear didn’t see.

“Cool, so I guess I’m gonna head off. I’ll see you Monday?” Alfred hardly heard himself over the drumbeat in his ribs. Today, he’d seen people from all walks of life funnel their money into pounds of cocaine. Alfred had done a good job _selling_ it, too, and what kind of businessman didn’t sample his own product? Even at the restaurant, Alfred had been expected to try every dish during training. This was no different, right?

Shaky legs carried him toward the bus stop. Ivan hadn’t looked up at him once, but Alfred couldn’t help glancing back every few yards to make sure he wasn’t being watched. Even after the ice cream truck pulled off into the night, its rear lights faded from view, Alfred’s gaze kept shooting over his shoulder. He sat fidgeting while we waited for the bus to arrive.

The bus ride itself was a blur. Alfred was too focused on the plastic chafing his forearm. He thought about what a high like this might feel like, how different it would be from marijuana. And he thought, briefly, about Ivan. About how he might react if he discovered his product was missing. _When_ he discovered it.

Alfred cringed deeper in his seat. It was too late now. Ivan had promised to break him down, to knock all the fuckups out of him. Guilty curiosity filled Alfred’s chest as he wondered _how_. Ivan had been lenient with him, after all. What sort of _discipline_ could the man have in mind?

When the bus pulled into his stop, Alfred nearly skipped the stairs leading down to the pavement. He stumbled to catch his footing and waved as the driver pulled away. He was scarcely aware of the cold wind on his face, or the headlights blurring on his glasses. All of his attention narrowed to a single point: The gram of cocaine hidden in his jacket. Somehow, this little dose felt infinitely more dangerous than the six pounds he’d brought home after the Ludwig Incident. Maybe because he hadn’t intended to use anything before. Or maybe because Ivan had known he had _that._

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” Alfred burst into his apartment, falling back against the door when it closed. His heart hammered in his throat, choking him. Frantic, he searched the dark for other signs of life. Matthew was still in the hospital. Arthur… It didn’t look like he was home, either. Alfred was alone. That was good. He needed to be alone.

Alfred shrugged out of his jacket, slinging it over the back of a kitchen chair. He nearly collapsed against the dining table, his palms sweating where they struck wood. Shaking, he tossed the baggy down before him. Then, his wallet. A high laugh burst from his lips. He didn’t know why he was doing this. He didn’t know if it was to prove a point, or to see if he could get away with it, or to figure out what would happen if he didn’t. Maybe it was because he was an _adrenaline junkie._ That’s what Arthur liked to call him. An _adrenaline junkie_ who wasn’t satisfied unless he was acting _positively reckless._

Alfred peeled open the bag. He spilled some on the table by accident, then shook a little more from its container. He hesitated when he looked at the playing card that appeared in his hand. The ace of hearts with a bent corner. He turned it over in front of his face, and his lips suddenly felt dry. He licked them. Then, he tapped the edge of the card on the table and started sweeping the powder into a messy row.

Snorting cocaine was a little like snorting powdered candy, something Alfred and his friends had dared each other to do in grade school. It tickled your sinuses the same way, made your nose tingle and twitch. The resulting sensation, though… That was unlike anything else. Alfred’s breaths rushed in his ears as he straightened up. His face flushed, and then that warmth spread outwards, towards his fingers, his _groin._

“Whoa, shit…” He tipped his head back as a sigh melted through him. He felt his heartbeat _everywhere_ , throbbing, pulsing in every vein. He laughed again. This time, it sounded like music.

“Fuck, okay… What do I gotta do? I gotta pick that shit up. Yeah, yeah.” Alfred snatched up his jacket and stashed the baggy and playing card inside. He glanced around, realized he’d forgotten to turn on the lights, but decided it didn’t matter. He was alert, he could see fine, and anything he couldn’t see—Well, he could _sense_ it. Anything around him, _everything_ around him, he could feel its presence singing to his own.

Somehow, he still didn’t see Arthur coming.

Alfred snapped to attention when the front door creaked open. His eyes flicked to the hinges— _Loud, they were so loud, he’d have to replace them soon, that was insane—_ before he caught his reflection in the mirror above the sink. And fuck, he was _handsome._ His pupils were a little wide, his expression a little frenzied, but his smile fixed everything. He turned it on Arthur.

“Hey.” Alfred’s lips twitched around the edges. Arthur paused, regarding Alfred warily, and nudged the door shut with a hip. He slid his messenger bag off his shoulder and flicked on the kitchen light. Alfred blinked, squinting against it.

“Hi.” Arthur frowned. His brows furrowed. “Did you just get home?”

“Did I just get home? Yeah. Yeah, I just got home a couple minutes ago, yeah.” Alfred was still smiling, his heart still fluttering in the tips of his fingers. Liquid fire trickled toward his core. Mentally, he traced its path: Down along his sternum, to a lightly muscled abdomen, to the crease of his V-line, and lower.

“Alright.” Arthur watched him for a few seconds. _Probably because he looked so damn good right now,_ Alfred thought, and looked back at the mirror. Arthur’s voice continued. “Are you feeling—”

“Yeah,” Alfred interrupted. “Yeah, I feel great.” Actually, that was an understatement. Alfred felt _incredible._ His senses were sharp, his words came easily, and all at once he understood his motivations. For everything.

_He_ was going to be the next big boss.

Alfred felt certain of that, now. Maybe he’d still have people call him the Rat, when it happened. “Rat” had a nice ring, now that he thought about it, and hey, didn’t rats survive the Bubonic Plague or something? That was him: A survivor. Determined. A mean motherfucker who wasn’t afraid of anyone. In fact, soon, people would learn to fear _him._ He just needed the Old Bear to give him a little boost. Then _he’d_ be running shit. And, hell, Ivan would have to be impressed then. Maybe he’d compete with him; Ivan would be the only competition worthy of Alfred’s time, after all. Maybe he’d fuck him. He was obviously interested. Why else would he let Alfred get away with so much bullshit? He’d protected him from multiple consequences by now and, god, Alfred was _invincible._

“I feel great,” he repeated, after a second that felt like much longer. “Why, why are you asking me that?”

“You look…” Arthur’s eyes flicked between Alfred’s own. Alfred stared right back, unabashed. When Arthur came closer, Alfred’s blood turned warm.

“I look…” Alfred prodded. His voice sounded velvety in his ears. He decided to talk again, because he liked how it sounded. “Pretty, ain’t I? Y’know, I don’t know why I never thought about it, but becoming a model would be a _great_ way to make money in New York. And, dude, look at me.” Alfred followed his own advice, returning his attention to the mirror. “I’m exactly what the industry is looking for. Blonde hair, blue eyes, tan California beach babe. I look like fucking apple pie and baseball over here, baby. You see what I’m saying?”

Arthur took a moment to find his voice. Probably because of the “baby” comment, Alfred realized suddenly. Oh well. Arthur liked it, Alfred knew he did, even if he wouldn’t admit it. He was _flattered._

When Arthur finally spoke, it was with an edge of irritation. “You are stroking your own dick even more than usual here, Al. And that’s saying a lot. Do you know that?”

“Hey, why don’t you, you know, like, smoke a little? You should relax, right? I think you should relax.” Alfred gave a low, warm laugh. “You’ve had a long day and—”

“We’re getting rid of the weed,” Arthur began.

Alfred talked over him. “—if we’re getting rid of the weed anyway, you might as well smoke up the last of it. There’s really no sense in just throwing it all away, right? Besides, I already had a little.”

“You smoked the weed I explicitly told you not to touch ever again.” Arthur glowered, which turned to a wince when Alfred caught his hand. Alfred tucked it in against his chest. The sensation of skin-against-skin made his head swim.

“Shhh, hey…” Alfred’s eyes flickered over Arthur’s face. He absorbed every detail: The faint freckles scattered across a pale nose and cheeks. The dark, untrimmed brows, and windblown hair the color of wheat. He noticed the little dimple in Arthur’s chin— _Had that always been there?—_ and the three moles nestled in the crook of his neck. Finally, his eyes settled on Arthur’s lips, thinly made, perfect for scowling and little else.

“You wanna listen to those records?” Alfred’s smile melted wider when Arthur startled. “I was just thinking about it, and you really wanted to pull those out again, and I really like your music, so…what d’you say?”

Arthur met his eyes. Alfred didn’t know what he saw there, but he must have liked it, because fifteen minutes later, they were sprawled on Arthur’s bed with The Beatles drifting from a record player, mingling with the sweet stench of marijuana. Alfred’s brain buzzed while he watched the red embers glowing between Arthur’s lips. He drummed his fingers against his own skin. Every point of contact stole his focus, again and again and again. Below his belt, the pulse of his heart returned.

“And anyway, it’s crazy how much influence these guys had on the anti-establishment counterculture thing going on in the 60s or the 70s or whenever the hell all that stuff happened, _especially_ when you consider that, like—Okay. The British were the ones trying to hold the American rebels down way back when, right? And then, flash forward a couple centuries, and now these dudes are just _super_ into rebellion and shit, to the point that the popularity of their music practically depends on its political content? It’s kind of like, America took a lot of musical influence from the British, sure, but the Brits took all the rough-and-tumble rabblerousing from _us_ , m’kay? So, tell me why we have a name for the British Invasion, when the Americans got all infatuated with British music—Which really just applauded a mindset the Americans literally _founded their country on,_ so of course we liked it, but whatever—but we don’t have a name for when the British got all hard for American ideas of protest and rebellion? It’s like, they just want to take credit for all the cool stuff we decide to do, but they don’t want to acknowledge when they’ve been inspired by the ol’ colonies. You know what I’m saying?”

“No,” Arthur admitted in a lazy drawl. “You’ve been talking for the past ten minutes. I’ve lost track.”

Alfred’s attention zeroed in on Arthur. He watched Arthur take a hit from the stub between his fingers and fixated on the clean stream of smoke he blew at the ceiling. It reminded him of a different kind of smoke, spiraling off the end of a wilting cigarette. He thought of chapped lips curled into a pale smile, and the way vodka tastes. Then, his eyes darted to the closet, the empty pots and scattered soil left over from a failed business endeavor. His thoughts shifted to another type of business, one more lucrative, that involved fine powders that glittered like snow. _Snow…_ A scent like winter tickled his memory. Cold hands, too. He lurched upright, suddenly.

“Hey, Artie, you remember that deal we used to have?” He didn’t wait for Arthur to reply. He didn’t even wait for his brain to catch up with mouth, because then it might have told him he was making a terrible mistake. “It was like, if one of us was intoxicated or something? And like, you never wanted to take advantage of me, you know, so we agreed it’s okay to do stuff with each other if both of us are equally fucked up? And, I’m just saying, because we’re both kinda doing our thing right now and—”

“Al…” Arthur pulled himself up to Alfred’s level. His voice was deadpan, his eyes dim. His lip curled, slowly, when he said, “Slow down. You’re asking me to…what? Fuck you?”

“I’m just saying because…” Alfred glanced around, rubbing absently at his arms. It felt nice to be touched and, sure, Arthur was his ex and he was always nagging him and he had the _wrong accent_ but, but, “I don’t wanna kiss or anything, I mean, I know that would be weird for you since you’re practically still in love with me, and who can blame you, right? But lately I’ve been feeling—Sorry, I didn’t mean to say all that, but just don’t think too much about it. All you really need to know is…” Alfred locked eyes with Arthur, and his voice pitched low. “Arthur. I am really, really, really fucking horny right now.”

He didn’t fully realize how true that was until he’d said it out loud. Now, he was hyperaware of that fuzzy warmth prickling at his skin. The air felt fluid, dizzying, and it washed into him when he breathed, turning his blood to pure _heat._

Arthur stared at him with lidded eyes. He took a final hit on his joint and flicked it onto his bedside table. He still hadn’t exhaled the smoke by the time he croaked, “Fuck it.”

Alfred’s heart _thumped_ when Arthur tumbled into him. He felt lips on his neck, teeth, and his mind slipped into some strange, turbulent lake. Fabric dragged across his skin, then cool air, and then he was surrounded and gasping and _hot_. He groped his way downwards, found a fistful of _something_ , and squeezed. A groan sounded in his ear, made him shiver.

_“Good boy,”_ came a deeply accented voice, _Russian,_ shredding past the veil of his mind. Alfred gasped wetly, tilted his head back to make room for another barrage of ashy kisses. His mind raced him back to the restaurant, to those isolated booths in the corner. He imagined a fluid wave of smoke caressing his skin, even as he watched the _No Smoking_ sign hung up on the wall. He imagined cold hands, gripping, bruising, and he wondered what it might feel like, getting burned by a cigarette.

“Alfred.”

So often, The Old Bear said his name when he was in trouble. But Alfred knew he could be softer, too. Or mischievous. Or any number of things. That was his magic. All Ivan needed to do was put his mind to it, and he could be anything. He could be _anywhere_. Even, Alfred thought with a tug of excitement, in his bed, overtop of him.

“Alfred.”

Alfred’s hair rucked up against the pillows. He turned his cheek into a discarded shirt, breathing in its scent. There was something off about it—It didn’t smell like fresh earth or tobacco or borscht like his coat had—but the fabric felt nice against his skin. He felt a pair of hips pulse up against his backside and his jaw trembled. _His hips… Broad… Always hidden behind that coat, but now, grinding up against his own._ A punishing grip tangled in his hair. _Pulled_. Alfred moaned.

“ _Alfred._ ”

The face he blinked open his eyes to was not the Old Bear’s. There were no aquiline features or amethyst eyes or barely hidden scars. There was just Arthur, half-dressed for some reason—And when had that happened anyway? It’s not like they were sleeping together these days—with disheveled hair and a bloodshot gaze that could kill.

“Whose name were you saying?”

Alfred’s thoughts ran circles around him. He tried desperately to latch onto one. “What? What are you talking…talking about? Name?”

The heat at Alfred’s back withdrew as Arthur sat on the edge of the bed. Alfred hesitated, then followed suit, crossing his legs up underneath himself. He was only wearing one sock, he realized, and started searching for the other from where he sat.

“Just a moment ago,” Arthur explained, “you were saying someone’s name. It wasn’t mine. Who were you…?”

“Name?” Alfred’s temple throbbed. His breaths came slower now than before. “What name? No, no. I’m—Arthur, it was a pet name. I was saying, like…”

“Look at me.”

Alfred cringed away from the command. He was determined, now more than ever, to find that other sock because, shit, where could it have possibly _gone?_ He plucked at the blankets, flicked some pillows aside. From the corner, Arthur’s records rattled on, providing a backdrop for the scene that was entirely inappropriate.

“Alfred, goddammit, _look at me._ ”

Alfred’s head throbbed again. His body began to feel heavy, and the emotion seeping in through his pores didn’t lighten the load. Reluctantly, he raised his eyes to Arthur’s. Arthur’s were red-rimmed, not entirely focused, but that just meant he took the time to examine Alfred even more precisely. Arthur’s gaze narrowed when he settled back.

“It’s not a bit of weed that’s made you high, is it?”

High? Was he? Alfred could feel himself coming down already, a steady drop off the edge of a high castle. His chest broke apart as he descended, crumbling inside him. The longer he sat there, grounded in the real world, the more he began to notice. His pants were caught up around his ankles, his shirt was gone. His fingers twitched as he wrestled absently with his belt. Time was slowing down again, no longer a rush of blind sensation, and Arthur looked _pissed._

“You’re doing some other drugs, aren’t you?”

“Arthur, I’m not…” Alfred’s eyes flickered downwards. He thumbed the side of his nose, because it _tickled_ , it was an innocent gesture, _really_ , and Arthur’s eyes grew wide.

“My god…” Arthur breathed. “My good god. I’ve been a fool. I’m absolutely _stupid._ I’ve always known you were terrible with communication, but I truly thought this was your way of…” He hesitated, his voice drawing up tight in his lungs. He shook his head fiercely. “Never mind what I thought. It doesn’t matter now. Alfred, you—”

“Arthur, listen, I really don’t know what you think is going on here, but I swear I just had a little bit of weed and—”

“I don’t believe you,” Arthur said, calmly. He looked between Arthur’s eyes. Then, without warning, he bolted from the bedroom. Alfred cried out. He gave chase, catching Arthur before he’d even reached the end of the hallway. He grabbed his wrists, and Arthur wrenched away just as quickly.

“Where is it?” Arthur demanded, whirling on him. “Where is it? Is it in your jacket? How much is left?”

“Arthur…” Alfred groaned, trying and failing to catch his arms again. Arthur batted him away, snarling.

“Don’t _dare_ touch me. Don’t.” Arthur’s chest rose on frenzied breaths. He raked his fingers through his hair, again and again, as though to soothe himself. It wasn’t working. “I’m not leaving here until I watch you flush whatever you have left. _All_ of it. And if you say you don’t have any more—”

“I don’t have any more!” Alfred insisted.

“I don’t. Believe. You.” Arthur pushed each word through his teeth. An ironic smile tainted his lips and he scoffed. “I think the worst part of all of this is…” His eyes cut to Alfred’s, burning green. “You’re not any different. Not really. Whatever drug you’ve got yourself fucked up on, it’s only made you more _yourself._ ”

A low ringing started up in Alfred’s left ear. He laughed to try and get rid of it. “Uh… But that’s a good thing, right? Since people like me so much, it can’t be too bad to—”

“I don’t know how you haven’t heard this before, but you are _not_ the hero you want to pretend you are, Alfred Jones.”

The ringing spread. It bled into Alfred’s right ear, and then he could see it behind his eyes, a dull white thread of sound. “Well, now, wait a minute…”

“It’s as though every time the universe warns you against being _reckless_ , you feel compelled to outdo the last stupid thing you’ve done. What will it take for you to just _stop?_ ” Arthur grimaced. “Our only car is wrecked god-knows-where because of _you_. Your brother is in the hospital because of _you._ Our relationship _fell apart_ because of _you—_ ”

“Oh, _there_ it is.” Alfred’s high was replaced with a dull hum of agitation. He snorted a humorless laugh. “It always comes back to us. Always comes back to the relationship. You know, you act so upset over Matthew and the car and all that stuff, but I think those are all just things to pile on top of your freaking pity party, aren’t they?”

“I haven’t a _clue_ what you are insinuating—”

“I’m _insinuating_ , dude, that no matter what’s going on, no matter who’s hurt, or what’s broken, or _whatever_ , you always use it to confirm _your_ warped idea of how the relationship ended. So, you wanna go into it now? You really want to talk about that _now?_ ” Alfred took a step forward. A flame of self-righteousness flared beneath his heart. “And what do you think will come of it, anyway? You think you’re gonna bitch at me so much about ‘ruining our _oh so perfect_ relationship’ that I’ll, like, ‘realize the error of my ways’ and come crawling back to you? I seriously don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish every time you bring it up.”

“It was just another instance to add to the long _list_ of things you’ve destroyed.” Arthur held his ground, glaring up at Alfred as though they were the same height. “You make a _mess_ , Alfred, wherever you go. It’s a singular talent of yours.”

“I told you a million fucking times, I can _fix_ this shit!” Alfred laughed, too loud. “I’ve got money now. I’m installing us a nice security system tomorrow, because seriously, how did we live this long in New York City without one? And then I can work on paying off Mattie’s hospital bills, and I’ll even buy you a new freakin’ car if it gets you off my dick about it. What make and model you want?”

“You think,” Arthur laughed too, a broken, bitter sound. “You _honestly_ still believe this is about the _money?_ ”

“Fine! We can get back together, too!” Alfred threw out his arms, pushing in closer to Arthur. “That’ll solve all your problems, won’t it? Hey, you wanna be my boyfriend again? You wanna date the guy you can’t stand, so at least you can pretend you’re justified when you go through my texts and tell me you don’t want my friends coming over? Is that what you want, _babe?_ ”

“No. No, no, no, no, don’t even _try_ to twist things like that. I went through your things because you wouldn’t _communicate_ with me, you were shutting me out and it was scaring me. I was _desperate_ , Al—”

“Yeah, you don’t need to tell me that.”

Arthur bit off a vicious scowl. “As for your _friends_ … Clearly, you don’t know how to surround yourself with decent company. I mean, just _look_ at you now!” Arthur’s voice dropped. It would have been a plea if it weren’t so controlled. “I _know_ you’ve got it in you to be a good person, Al. I know you’ve got a brilliant heart. But you’re probably hanging out with awful, power-hungry monsters who’ve killed more people than you’ve said ‘hello’ to.”

Alfred gave a frustrated laugh. “Didn’t I tell you to stop running your mouth about this shit?”

“Right. And that’s another thing. You think you can just silence me every time I start to catch onto what it is you’re doing? We’re not in public anymore, Al. This is our home. No one’s listening, you can’t use that excuse anymore.”

“You don’t know that.” Alfred jammed a finger into Arthur’s chest, who swatted it away. “I don’t even know that. And I don’t want to find out by letting you run your mouth until something _happens._ ”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a bloody threat?”

“It’s a bloody _warning_ ,” Alfred said, “because I _care_ about you, dummy. Why the fuck is that funny?”

“If you really _cared_ about me,” Arthur began, hot laughter on his tongue. “You would have let me help you out of this mess back before it got out of hand. You would have said a lot fewer ‘shuts ups’ and a lot more ‘thank yous.’ An ‘I’m sorry,’ perhaps. I miss the days when you actually cared. You used to kiss me and spend time with me and sing me songs. Now, all you do is say, ‘I _do_ care, Artie, _really_ ,” and I’m supposed to believe that rubbish when every other word out of your filthy mouth is a lie?”

“Okay. You know what?” Alfred stared at Arthur for a minute. Then, he shrugged past him and headed for the kitchen. “I’m done here. I’m out.”

“I guarantee you don’t have anywhere good to go,” Arthur said, hot on his heels. “You’re just running back to leeches who are sucking all the humanity from you. You need to come back to the people that love you, Al. _They_ don’t give a shit about you. We’re the only ones. Us.”

“How about, you’re not allowed to tell me who cares about me and who doesn’t. Like, actually what the fuck.” Alfred chewed off a laugh and pulled on his jacket. “Also, how about you stop acting like me caring about you as a friend is somehow less valuable than caring about you as a partner, because that sucks.”

“This whole fucking situation _sucks_. And where are you going?”

“It’s seriously none of your business.” Alfred made for the front door. Arthur got there first. He planted his feet, staring at Alfred over crossed arms. Alfred snorted. “Artie, get out of my way.”

“No.”

“Arthur—”

“No.”

“I’m just gonna go down the fire escape if you don’t—”

“ _I won’t let you leave_.”

Alfred paused. Arthur stared at him with emerald fire in his gaze. His chest heaved on frenzied breaths. His face was red, ferocious, and his hands clung to either side of the doorjamb. A few moments passed between them, Alfred training his weight back on his heels, and Arthur pinning him in place with invisible daggers. At last, Arthur’s eyes flickered downwards. He pursed his lips, nodded slowly. Without looking up, he stepped out of Alfred’s path.

“Put some pants on first.”

Alfred stood still as Arthur walked past him. He felt numb, his chest hollow. He tucked his hands in his pockets and felt a familiar plastic baggy. An idea sparked: He was pretty sure he knew how to make his chest feel a little less empty. His fingers tightened around the remaining dose, and the card he’d used to cut lines.

In the end, Alfred strolled through Manhattan side streets looking for someone to sell to. At least, then, he could pay his boss for what he’d taken. It was the right thing to do.


	10. Stitches

Alfred was early.

It was a pretty shitty party to show up early to, all things considered. He appeared to be in some kind of warehouse. Rotten wood held the structure in place, just barely. One corner sagged under the weight of past storms and a summery breeze stole inside, carrying the scent of decay. Overhead, a skittering of tiny feet scraped across the rafters. The only light pulsed from a bare bulb in the center of the space. A cloud of dust swam in the dull yellow halo. Alfred scratched at his arms, rocking idly from foot to foot. He knew he should be nervous about the people they were supposed to meet here, but all he could think of were how many _ghosts_ resided in this place.

After a while, Alfred had learned to stop turning at every flicker in the shadows. He worked on steeling his mind, taming his anxieties. This was his first real mission under the Old Bear, whose last name, he’d discovered, was Braginsky. Ivan Braginsky. Any internet searches turned up information about the restaurant, and nothing else. Alfred had found no criminal records, no place of birth, no history of residence. In a way, Ivan was almost like a ghost himself, except ghosts at least had an obituary to read from. Once, Alfred discovered a blogpost in the listings, but when he clicked the link, he found that the post had been deleted. In fact, the entire blog had been deleted. He’d turned his laptop off, after that, and went to bed with a vague feeling of uncertainty.

 _What_ had he gotten himself into? On the tail end of that question, another one roared: Yeah but how fucking _enormous_ will the payoff be, when it comes?

Alfred had already gotten some rewards. First, Ivan actually _talked_ to him now. The man was naturally quiet, he never said too much, but he listened to Alfred, didn’t ignore him, and responded when appropriate. Sometimes, he even made jokes. They were the kind of jokes that were difficult to recognize as jokes, at times. But they made Alfred laugh. He just had to hope the Old Bear would be in as jovial a mood when Alfred handed over the money he’d made selling that bag of cocaine.

The next flicker of shadow Alfred saw was accompanied by muted footfalls. He swung around, smiling because he knew he was safe now. The scariest monster of all had arrived, and he was on _his_ side.

“Heya boss.” Alfred hooked his hands in his jacket pockets, standing tall. “I was starting to wonder if you’d have me babysitting this hunk of rotting timber by myself all day.”

Ivan raised his brows, made a little gesture that read, _Well, here I am._ Despite summer’s swift approach, Ivan wore his coat. It rustled around his ankles while he walked, straight ahead. He didn’t speak until he stood face-to-face with Alfred.

“You said you didn’t see anyone during your scope of the area. Is this correct?”

“Sure is.” Alfred scuffed his shoe against concrete flooring. “When did you say your friend is getting here again?”

“Yao doesn’t do exact times. It is why we have approximations. A window to work within.”

“Oh, right, like what the president does. They don’t want anyone to know exactly when he’s coming and going. I gotcha.” Alfred did his best to hold Ivan’s gaze, but those violet eyes were unrelenting, _knowing_. Alfred shifted his weight, huffed a laugh, and let another string of words pour from his mouth. “Actually, I uh, I kinda had something I wanted to tell you.”

Ivan didn’t say anything. His gaze held steady. Alfred took a breath, reached into his pocket, and retrieved a wad of cash.

“This is for you.” Alfred stepped forward to offer out the money. “I actually, like, I figured…” Alfred’s words caught when Ivan tilted his head, imploring. His smile cracked wider and he tried again. “We were doing so well with our sales the other day, so I just wanted to carry on the business after hours, you know? Show that I’m a hard worker and, despite how I might have come off in the past, I know what I’m doing. Made you a little extra cash, on my own time. So, here.”

Ivan reached out and accepted the offering. Alfred almost felt relieved, almost retreated. Then, he realized Ivan wasn’t letting go of his hand. “Is there something else you would like to tell me?”

Alfred’s heart skipped. He remembered a tingling in his nose. A short-lived high. He remembered lying on the couch, missing his brother, and not being able to sleep until Arthur left for work in the morning. “No, what would I—”

Gloved hands _crushed_ into Alfred’s windpipe. He choked, gagged, and Ivan squeezed tighter. He stepped in close, until Alfred stood pinned between a wall and the breadth of Ivan’s chest. His silhouette blocked the dim light from view, casting his face into shadow. Alfred swore he saw him smile.

“I understand now.”

Ivan’s voice was chillingly smooth. Alfred shivered. A frantic inhale shrieked through his lungs. He fought for another. _Ivan was choking him._ Every half-gulp of air burned his throat. His mouth opened and closed around broken sounds. Pitiful.

“Your motivations for joining this business.”

Ivan lifted him, then. Lifted him off the ground, _like a fucking doll._ Alfred wheezed. His back dragged up the wall. He kicked out with both legs, fighting to find his footing. Only the tips of his toes still grazed the floor. Tears stung the corners of his eyes. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe _at all._

“I warned you, every day, about the dangers of this game. Still, you were desperate to play. I never knew why. Now I see.”

Alfred gasped, to no avail. His ribs ached. His vision swam, and he couldn’t tell if it was because of the lack of oxygen, or the hot tears misting his eyes, or both. Probably both. He lashed out in front of him, grabbing, scratching. He needed free. He couldn’t breathe and his eyes were starting to go black around the edges and he needed _out of this._ His nails scraped uselessly at Ivan’s gloves. He scratched his own neck instead, raking up skin. The burn of his blood hurt less than the fire in his lungs.

“You _want_ to die.”

Die. _Die._ It felt like he was going to. And what for? He couldn’t even remember now. All he could think of was pain, fear, and that grim look in the Old Bear’s eyes that didn’t match the pale curve of his lips. Alfred threw a punch, connected with a thick blend of muscle and fat. Ivan didn’t budge. He swung at his head instead. Missed. His aim was bad, his maneuvers clumsy, and god, he really was going to _die here._

 _Ivan, please._ He tried to mouth the words. His jaw trembled too much. Fuck, _fuck._ Ivan wouldn’t be able to tell what he was saying. Even if he could, would he care? Apathy hardened every line of Ivan’s face. But it made sense, Alfred thought, for the man made of ice. His thoughts drifted somewhere far away. And then everything was getting farther, farther away.

 _I’m dying_ , Alfred thought. And Ivan released him.

“This is your final pardon.” Ivan stood still as Alfred collapsed. He fell to his hands and knees, sputtering, gasping, and Ivan didn’t even show him the courtesy of backing up. His shadow swallowed him. “My forgiving nature only goes so far.”

“Fuck,” Alfred spat, fighting the frenzied spasms in his chest. He dragged himself upright, tried not to shrink under Ivan’s presence. “Jesus…hell.”

“There is a saying in my country.” Ivan assumed an amiable tone, like he was reminiscing to an old friend. “ _S volkami zhit’ — po-volch’i vyt’._ That is, to live among wolves, you must howl like a wolf.” Ivan settled a hand on Alfred’s shoulder, and Alfred cringed. Embarrassment chased the reflex as he forced his eyes forward. Ivan returned the look. “Alfred, you make enough noise without the howling. Instead, I think I will teach you to hunt.”

Alfred swallowed, testing his throat before he dared speak. He nodded then, twitched a smile. “Sure, boss. Thanks.”

Ivan’s eyes moved between Alfred’s own, unreadable. Then, they shifted to his neck and lingered there, as though checking for damage. Ivan’s thumb grazed the crook of Alfred’s shoulder. It was a brief gesture, but gentle, and then Ivan withdrew to the middle of the room, quieter than the creeping breeze. Alfred watched him go and told himself his heart was only beating so hard because he’d almost _choked to death._ Still, he wondered if other certain…bodily reactions were normal as well. Alfred adjusted his belt and followed behind.

“Tell me what you are expected to do when my partner arrives.”

Alfred snapped to attention. “Oh! Yeah. Well, it’s an arms deal. You’re buying weapons from this guy.”

“That is right. _I_ am buying weapons. And you?”

“I’m going to watch, and take mental notes, and make sure that I can do this myself in the future. Uh, not with Yao, apparently. Since he only works with you directly, for some reason. But with other guys.”

“Yao has commanded his own syndicate since I was a child.” Ivan said. “It is a wonder he conducts business with me, let alone with some child who doesn’t know real life from _The Godfather._ ” Alfred almost got defensive there, but then he noticed Ivan’s faint smile and relaxed.

“Hey, I know the difference.” Alfred cracked a smile. “For starters, I actually _rooted_ for the Italians in _The Godfather._ ”

Ivan gave an appreciative chuckle. It made Alfred feel warm. He decided to try for another, when he noticed something dark cross Ivan’s expression. He was staring forward, locked on the exit. Alfred followed his gaze.

 _Speaking of Italians,_ he thought. Feliciano Vargas laughed from the doorway.

“ _Ciao!_ Hello!” Feliciano waved. The toes of his shoes gleamed when he stepped inside. “How are my friends doing, huh?”

A strangled silence followed. Alfred looked from Feli, with his pinstriped hat and floral vest, to Ivan, who stood as still as a stone pillar.

“You are not supposed to be here.” Ivan’s voice pitched low. It wasn’t a question when he said, “Where is Yao.”

“He had prior engagements. So sorry!”

“Yo…” Alfred muttered from the corner of his mouth. He felt his heart throbbing in his toes. “You want me to do anything?”

Ivan shook his head, almost imperceptible, his eyes trained straight ahead. When Alfred shifted, Ivan’s hand went out to stop him. And Alfred thought that was strange, because it wasn’t like he was trying to rush forward or do anything rash, he was just _moving,_ but then Alfred caught the glint of metal in Feliciano’s hand and he understood.

“Hi Alfred!” Feliciano cooed. He withdrew his gun in its entirety, waved it loosely before him. “Do you recognize this?”

“Looks like a Beretta,” Alfred said, holding his voice steady. “M9.” He knew it wasn’t the answer Feli was fishing for. This was the _same type of gun Antonio had used_ that day in the alley. Bitter irony filled Alfred’s mouth.

“You’re not here to talk to him,” Ivan said. “You showed up on my time, Feliciano. You are interrupting my business. You answer to me.”

It took Alfred a second to realize the next flash of silver he saw was Ivan’s own gun. So, he was the only one left unarmed. Great.

“Awe, you’re protecting him! That’s so sweet!” Feliciano took aim at Ivan, and Ivan’s weapon went up just as quick. Alfred recognized it: A .44 Mag. Good gun, powerful enough to drop a bear (another point of irony there), but it’d take a strong son of a bitch to handle that recoil. Then again, if done right, the recoil wouldn’t matter—One shot would be all he needed.

“Alfred is an employee of mine.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing _special_ going on between you two?” Feliciano sang the words, like a child teasing his friends on the playground. “Lovino thinks you’ve gotten soft. That’s what he says! Soft. And I don’t know for sure, but I think I agree!”

Ivan didn’t humor the taunt with a reply. He simply stood there, watching his opponent over the barrel of his gun. A thick cord of tension hung between the two machines, each one aimed precisely at the other. Feliciano stroked his trigger, teasing, and Ivan’s finger curled firm over his own. Either one of them could shoot. Any instant, one of the most powerful men in Manhattan could die.

“You know I hate to question you, my friend,” Feliciano went on with a little pout. “It’s just, last time we talked about his bad, _bad_ behavior, you said you were going to handle him! I’m starting to lose faith…”

“I am handling him.” Ivan’s expression didn’t change. Nor did his tone, or the language of his body. He didn’t look afraid, or worried, or even upset. If anything, Ivan appeared tired.

“Really?” Feliciano feigned a gasp. “Because Antonio’s shooting hand is still broken into bloody bits, and Alfred looks as good as new! That doesn’t seem very fair to me.”

Feliciano turned his gun on Alfred. Alfred’s chest burned. His feet felt heavy. He stood rooted to his spot, even as a nervous laugh rang above him.

“Uh, hey now, that’s not really…”

“We just got to thinking,” Feliciano said, in that same cheerful tone. “We can amend the situation ourselves, if you’re too weak to do it!”

Feli put some pressure on the trigger. It bent back, just the slightest fraction. Alfred’s breath tangled up into choked laughter. His eyes flicked pleadingly to Ivan. “Uh, hey boss?”

Ivan didn’t budge. There was no light in his eyes, and they didn’t move from Feliciano’s face. Slowly, his arm pivoted so that _he was aiming at Alfred too._

“Dude, what the fuck!” Alfred looked frantically between the two guns. Both stared at him with a single, apathetic black eye. “Ivan!”

“He is just some kid,” Ivan said simply. Alfred’s heart plummeted. Arthur’s words echoed in his mind: _They don’t give a shit about you. We’re the only ones. Us._

“Ivan—” Alfred’s voice broke. Instinctively, he started searching for a way out. There was only one door, and it was guarded by Feliciano. But there were also windows, and some weak points in the wood that Alfred could kick through if necessary. Now, if he could just get over the crushing weight in his heart, he’d be able to _move._

“He’s just some kid,” Feliciano repeated agreeably, “who wounded a member of the family. Come on, you guys! You know how my brother feels about—”

An explosion of gunfire split the air. Alfred’s heart burst. He threw himself to the floor, rolled, as garbled thoughts consumed him. _Who fired? Who was shot? Who, who who?_ For one frantic moment, he feared he might have been the one to take the bullet, and the adrenaline just hadn’t let him register the pain yet. Slowly, a few realizations trickled in. First, the gunshot had come from behind them. Second, Ivan was on the ground.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Alfred scrambled over, half-sprinting, half tripping over himself in his haste. He heard running. From above, from in front. There were voices, more than one, and pained hisses of breath that Ivan sucked through clenched teeth. Alfred cursed again and snatched up Ivan’s gun. He swung around aimlessly, searching for a missing Feliciano.

“It’s the brother,” Ivan snarled. His face was a mask of red fury and pain; the most expressive Alfred had seen him. “Dammit. The rafters.”

Alfred whipped Ivan’s gun up toward the ceiling. His eyes darted between black figures. Some moved, others didn’t. One of them held a still-smoking gun. Alfred made sure not to lock his elbows as he took aim. Crazed motions blurred in the edges of his vision, threatening to distract him, and Ivan was shouting something, _shouting_ like Alfred had never heard before, and then Alfred fired, and the air fractured into a high-pitched whine.

 _Fuck._ Alfred couldn’t hear himself speak, but it was one of those words you _felt_ more than anything. This is what his grandpa had tried to warn him about: Shooting guns without proper fucking ear protection. Then again, Grandpa probably never gave his advice expecting Alfred to apply it to a situation like _this._

 _To the car. Get to the car._ Ivan’s voice came as though from underwater. Alfred furrowed his brow, watched Ivan point, and then he registered the crimson stain slowly seeping over his boss’s thigh. And Ivan was trying to stand up on his own.

Alfred secured Ivan’s gun in his belt. Then, he shrugged Ivan’s arm over his shoulders, encouraging him to lean on him. He couldn’t hear what Ivan was saying, but he looked irritable— _Understandable,_ Alfred allowed—and it took a brief struggle before Ivan allowed himself to be supported. The ringing in Alfred’s ears faded the closer he hobbled to the door. The bright blue of the outdoors seemed a safe haven, even as Alfred searched the warehouse for more enemies. He felt like he was playing a videogame, except the guns were real, and there were no places to respawn.

“You okay? Are you okay?” Alfred’s breaths came quick, his voice faint beneath lingering drills of tinnitus. “Your fucking leg—”

“Just grazed me.” Ivan grunted, squinting against the sudden wash of sunlight. “You got him.”

“I got him?” Alfred repeated, only half-aware of what he was saying.

“The brother. Lovino. He was climbing through…a window. You fired. He fell.” Ivan’s words were halting, punctuated with pain. He added, “Not dead. Hurting.”

“Good,” Alfred huffed. “I didn’t wanna kill him. Now where’s the goddamn—?”

Another gunshot. Alfred pushed Ivan down and fell overtop of him. Then, the world spun, and Alfred sprawled on his back in the dirt. Ivan grimaced from his place above him.

“It’s you they want…to kill,” Ivan managed. “Don’t be a hero.”

“But they already _shot_ you!” Alfred’s hand hovered uncertainly over Ivan’s wound. The bleeding wasn’t stopping anytime soon.

“They know better…than to…fuck me twice.” Ivan jerked his chin toward his Cadillac, gleaming like frost in the overgrown lot. “Move.”

Alfred didn’t wait for a third shot. He wormed his way out from under Ivan, grabbed the man under his armpits, and hauled him halfway to his feet. Ivan staggered, swore, but then they were limping together again, toward his car, toward safety.

“Can you drive?” Alfred asked, breathless.

Ivan shot him a look.

“Right, got it,” Alfred conceded. “Just, gimme your keys.”

The third gunshot came as Alfred fought to pile Ivan into the backseat. A series of curses, English and Russian, filled the car. Alfred tore off his jacket and stuffed it under Ivan’s injured leg. The keys jingled around his thumb.

“At this point, I think they’re just trying to scare us,” Alfred said. “I mean, they can’t possibly want to shoot me if they keep missing like—”

The sideview mirror closest to Alfred’s head erupted in a hailstorm of glass. He yelped, crammed himself into the backseat with Ivan, and slammed the door shut.

“Okay, so they’re trying to kill me. Cool. Cool. That’s fucking awesome.”

Ivan sat quiet, leg outstretched, eyes shut so peacefully he could have been sleeping. In a voice barely above a whisper, he said, “Drive.”

“Right, right, right. Cool. Driving. Yeah.” Alfred clambered into the front seat, jammed a key in the ignition, thankful he got it on the first try, and laid on the gas. The tires squealed over loose gravel, and then they were spinning out onto the street.

“Love your car, by the way,” Alfred shouted over the pounding in his ribs. “Always wanted to drive one like it. Not under _these_ circumstances but— _fuck_.”

Alfred swerved to avoid a pothole, swerved again to avoid _that damn telephone pole_ that suddenly popped up, then swerved a final time to regain control of the vehicle. Ivan’s gun pressed into his hip, and he tossed it into the passenger seat.

“That baby’s got a kick to it.” Alfred glanced in the rearview mirror. Ivan still hadn’t opened his eyes. His breathing had gone shallow. “How’re you holding up back there, big guy?”

“Keep driving.” Ivan’s mouth sounded full.

“You don’t think they’re following us?” Alfred checked the mirror again. “Why the hell would they shoot you anyway? Seems like a dumb fucking idea to me. And that’s saying something, right boss?” He forced a smile. Ivan grunted in return. Alfred’s humor faltered. “Right. So… Where am I supposed to be taking you anyway?”

“Restaurant.”

“What?” Alfred twisted around in his seat before settling back again. “Dude, do you know how far away that is? No. Seriously. You had me meet you out in some New York nightmare town, like, an hour away from civilization. I didn’t even know New York _had_ ghost towns, but that’s what makes it so scary, right? You know you’re _so_ close to millions of other people, but they’re _just_ out of reach.”

“Bring me to the restaurant,” Ivan insisted. “Then go home.”

“Dude. Ivan. You’re bleeding. You got _shot._ You are seriously the most stubborn—” Alfred looked around at the dim alleys and unlit shops that enclosed them. “Look, I’m pulling over.”

“I still have one good leg to kick your ass.”

Alfred snorted. “You’re still being funny. That’s a good sign.”

“Why do you think this is funny? I’m serious.”

This time, it was Alfred’s turn to ignore Ivan. He bumped over a curb, spitting apologies each time Ivan made a stifled sound of distress. Years of Boy Scouts lessons and Arthur’s lectures about First Aid flitted through his brain. He’d need to disinfect the wound, first and foremost. Then…what? Slap a Band-Aid on it? The tips Alfred had learned were helpful when it came to papercuts and scraped knees. If Ivan were having a seizure, sure, he could roll him onto his side and make sure he didn’t bite his tongue. But how to tend a _bullet hole?_ He must have been sick the day his troupe learned that one.

Alfred managed to stop the car before an upcoming brick wall did the job for them. Ivan didn’t protest the rocky halt; he just laid there, looking peaceful and pale— _dead—_ all except for his pursed lips and the tiny crease between his brows.

“Okay, okay. Listen, I need, fucking, disinfectant.” Alfred wrenched around, gripping the back of his seat. “I know you’re hurtin’ right now, buddy, but you gotta help me out here. Need something to disinfect that wound.”

“Glovebox,” Ivan grunted.

“Thank fuck.” A rush of relief, eclipsed by adrenaline, as Alfred yanked open the little compartment. A travel-size bottle of vodka rolled out. Alfred held it up, incredulous. “Seriously? In your _car?_ ”

Ivan shrugged. His leg continued to bleed.

“Right, okay, whatever. I’m coming back there.” Alfred tripped his way into the backseat. He pushed the driver’s seat forward to give him more space and settled uncomfortably at Ivan’s side. All at once, Ivan grabbed the bottle of vodka.

“I will take care of it.” Ivan ground out the words, shoving himself into a sitting position. His face remained impassive. Only the slight tension around his mouth betrayed his pain.

“Hey, no.” Alfred tugged the bottle back in against his chest. Ivan reached for it again, so Alfred smacked his hand away. Ivan blinked at him in disbelief. “Yeah, I know. Listen, I don’t know if you’ve learned this about me yet, but I have a little trouble with the whole ‘being told what to do’ thing, okay?” Alfred flipped a pocketknife out of his jeans. “And when I know what I’m doing? I tend to listen to my gut, and _not_ the dude _bleeding out from a bullet wound._ Now, can you give me your leg please?”

“This line of work chews up…little rebels like you,” Ivan breathed.

“I’ll bet.” Alfred worked through the bright red buzzing in his head. It made his fingers shake. His chest trembled. But he’d always worked well under pressure and that year of firefighting volunteer work had to count for _something_ and he just couldn’t think about it all right now. Later. He could reflect later.

“I’m gonna cut some of the fabric off your leg, okay?” Alfred nudged the hem of Ivan’s coat away from the wound. He studied his pants, wet and black with blood, and his leg buckled where Ivan kicked him.

“I said I will do it,” Ivan snarled. “Let me.”

“How about, I’m ignoring you now.” Alfred drew in a grounding breath and studied the scene before him. His knife shivered lightly in his right hand. The vodka hung loose in his left. “Okay… Okay, I just gotta cut around the hole so I can see it. So… I’m gonna—” Alfred stumbled when Ivan kicked him again. After a brief struggle, he crushed his elbow into the man’s foot, pinning it. “ _Dude._ I’m trying to help you here.”

“You’ll do it wrong.” Ivan’s voice sounded rougher, wetter somehow. “Like you do…everything wrong.”

“You wouldn’t’ve let me on if you actually believed that,” Alfred said, ignoring the flutter of hurt in his pulse. Then, before Ivan could act, Alfred stuck the knife through his pantleg and began to slice the fabric away.

“Your superhero movies…teach you this too?” Ivan’s breathing shifted, became labored and harsh. Alfred tried to ignore that, too.

“Some of ‘em.” Alfred listened to the faint _zip_ of fabric tearing. His breath caught when he saw the mess of gore underneath.

“Oh. Frightened?”

But Alfred was far from scared. His hands spread carefully on either side of the wound. It was shallow, thank god. But there, in the areas the blood didn’t touch, ropy pink scar tissue decorated pale skin. It gleamed where the sun hit. Some were shallow and sprawling, while others ran _deep_ into his flesh _._ And that was only the skin Alfred had access to. He found himself wondering, not for the first time, what kind of bloody calligraphy was written into the rest of Ivan’s body.

“This is gonna sting,” Alfred said. “Probably a lot.” And he splashed alcohol over the wound. Ivan _growled._

“Wait.”

“Hush.”

“I have a sewing kit,” Ivan managed. “Under the seat.”

Alfred paused to gawk at him. He’d been expecting more protests. Another, stronger kick in the jaw, perhaps. Ivan’s offer shocked him infinitely more than the bottle of alcohol he kept right beside his steering wheel.

“You sew?” Alfred asked. Ivan grimaced. He took the vodka bottle and, this time, Alfred let him. He searched under the seat, resurfacing with a little plastic case, while Ivan drank.

This part, Alfred _had_ learned from movies. He selected a red spool and carefully threaded it through the eye of the needle. The hardest part, he thought. Forget about sticking a hot needle through someone’s skin. That was easy. Listening to someone’s pained grunts and stifled cries while you worked? Piece of cake. But threading a goddamn sewing needle? It took everything in him not to verbally cheer when he succeeded. At last, he flicked on his lighter and ran the point of the needle over the flame.

“You’re sure it just grazed you?” Alfred glanced overtop of his glasses. “I don’t need to go fishing a bullet out of your leg first?”

Ivan nodded. He sounded calm when he asked, “How many times have you done this?”

“Including right now?” Alfred poised the needle over bloodied flesh. “Once.”

He pierced Ivan’s skin. His fingers slipped as he made his stitches. It was hard to see, the wound was still pulsing a dark crimson goo, but Alfred worked slowly, and his vision remained sharp. Ivan trapped any pained sounds deep inside his chest.

“Could have made…tourniquet.”

“You would’ve tried stitching it up yourself the minute I dropped you at the restaurant,” Alfred mumbled. “These other scars tell me you don’t visit hospitals much.”

“Toris helps.”

“Mm.”

Alfred’s stitchwork was sloppy, but effective. The longer he worked, the tighter the skin pulled together, and the more confident his movements became. Eventually, he had to cut off a dry strip of Ivan’s pantleg to mop up the worst of the blood. His job got easier, after that.

“Here, I’m almost done.” Alfred glanced up before focusing back down on his hands. “You’re really not supposed to be drinking while you’re bleeding like this.”

“You want me to make your job easy?” Ivan grunted when he lifted the bottle. “I drink.”

Alfred shook his head, but a smile traced his lips. He felt like he _could_ smile, now that Ivan was mostly patched up, and they weren’t being chased, and his hand was still resting on Ivan’s thigh and…

“There.” Alfred tied off the thread, cut off the excess, and his eyes brightened on Ivan’s. “All done. How do you feel?”

“I feel like there is vodka and blood soaking my leather seats.”

“Guess I don’t need to worry about your perception of reality.” Alfred sat still for a long moment. Blood stained his hands, but he didn’t mind it. He felt proud, _elated_ to have helped his boss the way he did. Besides, running his finger over the stitching now, Alfred realized it wasn’t so bad. He’d done a good job. He just wanted to hear Ivan say, _he’d done a good job._

It wasn’t until Ivan shifted his leg that Alfred realized he was _gazing._ He coughed and shifted backwards. Ivan caught his wrist.

“You helped me today.”

Alfred’s heart swelled. He tested a crooked smile. “Is that a thank you? Because you’re totally welcome.”

Ivan didn’t roll his eyes, but _god_ he looked like he wanted to. “You didn’t let me finish. You helped me.” He frowned. “Against my orders.”

“Yeah, well…” Alfred’s smile crept wider. A warm buzzing started up in his chest. “You wanna…like…choke me out for it or what?” It took a moment, but the corner of Ivan’s mouth twitched. Alfred’s heart warmed to see it. He went on, “You know what I think?”

“I’m sure you are going to tell me.”

“I think you needed someone around to push back against you a little.” Alfred beamed. “I think you were so used to being the boss, giving orders, no questions asked, that when the bad guys started challenging you, you didn’t even know what to do. Really, this is good for you.”

“I would not go that far.” A touch of fondness crinkled Ivan’s eyes. Then, a shadow drew over them as he seemed to remember where they were. What just happened. “But… Speaking of challenges.”

Ivan opened the car door. Alfred moved to stop him, but Ivan raised his hand, and Alfred backed down. He’d been given enough power for the day. He knew it was time to relent. At the very least, he could help Ivan to the passenger seat, Alfred thought. But then, Ivan headed for the driver’s side.

“Whoa. Ivan.” Alfred ducked in front of the door. “You sure?”

“I can drive.” Ivan gestured with a nod, and Alfred wouldn’t have moved out of his way if it weren’t for the tiny wince that followed, letting Alfred know it hurt for him to stand there. He looked away as Ivan settled into his seat, because he knew Ivan would cringe and shudder from the pain, and it wouldn’t feel right for Alfred, seeing him like that. After a minute, when Ivan was seated, Alfred looked his way.

“We’re doing something about this, right?” Alfred asked. “We’re not just letting them get away with this.”

“You realize I would not have been in this situation if it were not for you.”

Earlier, Alfred might have believed that. He might have hung his head and frowned contritely and questioned his position in the _Brava_ or _Bratva_ or however you said that. Now, maybe it was the adrenaline fueling his confidence, but Alfred stood tall, scrunched one eye shut against a golden sun. “Well… If you ask me, they were just looking for an excuse to come at you. If it weren’t about me, they would have jumped on some other bullshit justification. Besides,” Alfred shrugged. “They shot _you._ Not me.”

Ivan looked at Alfred, then. They’d seen each other a lot recently, but this time, Alfred felt like Ivan really _looked_ at him. There was the faintest trace of approval, maybe even appreciation, lurking in those lavender eyes.

“Go catch your taxi, Ratboy,” Ivan said, finally.

“Oh, come on. Haven’t I earned a cooler name by now? I mean,” Alfred leaned his elbow against the car door. Warm metal hummed beneath his forearm. “I _did_ save your ass back there, after all.”

Ivan’s lips curled into a smirk. It was a purely mischievous look, devilish, and Alfred did his best to capture it in his memory. He stored it right between Ivan’s chuckle and his scars. Then, Ivan edged the car forward, and Alfred moved to let him go. He waved until the Cadillac was out of sight.

At last, alone in the New York slums, Alfred started to laugh. The gleeful sound rose above the telephone wires, startled away the birds and followed them up into the clouds. Without thinking, he scrubbed a hand over his face. It took him until he arrived home to realize why he’d won himself so many strange looks along the way: The smile he wore was red with blood, and his eyes were thirsty for it.


	11. Paint

“And then I woke up and I was alone. He left a note that said he ‘needed space,’ or whatever.” Alfred nudged the button for the passenger side window, watching it scroll up and down. “So, yeah, I guess Arthur’s pretty much done with me for a while.”

“This does not seem like such a bad thing.”

“Mmyeah.”

Sunlight dappled over grey leather interior. It still smelled faintly of vodka but, then again, so did its owner. Music whispered through the radio speakers, all but forgotten. Ice clinked, far more loudly, against the sides of a half-empty McDonald’s cup. Alfred traced the lid and watched the road blur outside his window. They’d been driving a long time. The city was behind them. He still didn’t know where they were going, but the good news was, even Ivan Braginsky couldn’t ignore him for more than two hours. They’d started up a conversation at some point: Small talk at first, the kind that gradually grew deeper and left Alfred feeling slightly bummed out. At least it was something.

Behind the wheel, Ivan did not wear his usual suit. His attire consisted of a light grey turtleneck, bunched around his elbows, and a pair of faded blue jeans. Alfred had only recently stopped staring at the way they clung to his hips, fitting snug across thick thighs. And with his window cracked the way it was, and Ivan’s hair ruffling like strands of ash… Alfred made himself look away.

“I mean, it’s not terrible. I’ve spent so long trying to get him off my ass and now he’s finally letting me breathe a little, so that’s nice.” Alfred hesitated. He didn’t know if he wanted to keep talking about this, especially when Arthur’s sudden move out of the house was still so fresh, but he didn’t want to lose Ivan’s attention either. Admittedly, it did feel good to confide in someone who seemed to sympathize. His mouth must have agreed, because it kept moving. “But I just… I don’t know.”

“You miss him,” Ivan said, too understandingly. Alfred whipped his head around.

“Miss him? Ha. No.” Alfred strained a laugh. “Look, I don’t know how many exes you have, but you don’t _miss_ them when they finally leave you alone after months of breathing down your neck. No, no.” He should have left it at that, but doing so would have felt dishonest. He took a breath. “It’s just…”

Ivan waited for Alfred to continue. When he didn’t, Ivan nodded. “So, you are homesick.”

“I don’t really…” Alfred’s nose crinkled. “What do you mean, I’m homesick?”

“There are many things changing in your life right now, and no one is home to offer a sense of normalcy.” Ivan’s eyes, faintly obscured by lightly colored sunglasses, skimmed the road. “Your brother is hospitalized. Yes? Now Arthur is gone. You have no home to come back to when you need it. It is difficult.”

Alfred wanted to deny it. He just didn’t have the fight left in him. He slanted his mouth and conceded with a little, “Okay.”

“Where do you suppose he’s run off to?”

“No idea.” Alfred stretched his arm above his head and twisted around to crack his back. “Maybe staying with his parents, if they’re still visiting? I dunno. Maybe he’s banging Francis finally.” He considered that possibility, then shrugged. “Good for him, if so.”

“Is that jealousy I hear?”

Alfred could hear the teasing smile in Ivan’s voice. He couldn’t help but laugh at the idea. “Okay, I could kinda see what you were saying about the other stuff, homesickness and all. But I am really, _sincerely_ not jealous. Like, I don’t know how to get that across to you. But just look me in my eyes and realize I’m telling the truth. Please.” He scoffed a smile as he reclined his seat. “I have some dignity, man, come on.”

“I am glad.” Ivan’s smiling tone softened. “You might have made _me_ jealous, otherwise.”

Alfred’s attention sharpened. He sat up straight again. “No way. Wait, you’re jealous? Or you would’ve been? Why?”

Ivan didn’t answer, but part of Alfred had expected that. He entertained himself by considering all the different ways his relationship with Arthur might make a big bad mob boss like Ivan envious. The thought made him smile…until he realized, _shit,_ what if Ivan thought he was unavailable? What if he was ruining his chances by being coy? Alfred cleared his throat.

“Uh, but there’s really actually nothing to be jealous of. Just so you know.” A beat, and then, “I’m single.”

Alfred cringed once the words left his mouth. _Jeez,_ he thought, _desperate much?_ A soft chuckle from Ivan soothed him. He turned to his boss with half a smile.

“You like that?” Alfred asked. “Wanna see how many more feet I can stick in my mouth?”

“It’s not really a fetish of mine, but I do like to keep my options open.”

“Oh, man!” Alfred tossed his head back, laughing. “You really are fuckin’ funny, you know that?” Alfred watched Ivan’s face, the shy smile he turned to hide. “Goddamn… It’s like, how can a guy be gunning people down throughout the week, and then the weekend hits and, _bam,_ he’s basically just the cutest human being ever?”

There was a pause, during which Alfred thought he might have gushed a _little_ too much. Then, Ivan said, “Is my cologne affecting you like some sort of sexual pheromone? You have been particularly shameless this last hour.”

“That’s kinda just who I am as a person, honestly,” Alfred said, playing it off. He crossed his legs up under himself, his shoes laying discarded beneath his seat. “And anyway, where exactly are we going?”

“I told you, we are going to be doing some training.” Ivan shifted his left leg, and Alfred’s heart panged. He knew his injury was still bothering him. “Try to behave yourself until then, yes?”

“Awe, shucks.” Alfred grinned and looked back out the window. “Don’t I always?”

*

“I didn’t know there were forests in New York.”

“Of course.”

“And we’re gonna be training here? Is that allowed?”

“The ranger owes me a favor. Just respect the wildlife.”

“Right. So…what exactly does ‘training’ entail?”

Ivan opened the car door, and Alfred followed suit. He stepped out over a dry patch of grass and surveyed the area. The air smelled of soil and sweet maple sap. Overhead, a canopy of leaves shielded them from a white-hot sun. He saw a dirt path beckoning them toward the mouth of the woods, even as a chipmunk scurried in the other direction.

“Alfred.” Ivan leaned heavily on his good leg. He wouldn’t wince, was too stubborn, but his discomfort showed visibly in the corners of his eyes and mouth. “Open the trunk and take out our gear.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Alfred caught the keys that were thrown to him. But then, he noticed something he hadn’t before. A tattoo of a bear peeked out from under Ivan’s rolled-up sleeve, near his elbow. Alfred stared, committing every line of ink to his memory.

“Today, Rat.”

“What? Oh! Yeah, sorry.” Alfred laughed, stuck the key in the trunk of the car, and popped it open. “I like your tattoo. Reminds me of one a friend of mine has.”

“One of us will have to change.”

Alfred smiled at the dryness in that joke. He turned his attention to the contents of Ivan’s trunk. His brow furrowed as he sifted through pieces of heavy Kevlar padding. He found a pair of goggles. And of course, there were the weapons.

“Dude… Are these paintball guns?” Alfred hefted one into his hands. Excitement bubbled in his chest. “I thought these were illegal in New York?”

Ivan limped over to Alfred’s side. He didn’t say anything as Alfred examined their materials. Alfred counted two helmets, two pairs of goggles, two chest pads, four arm guards, four leg guards, and two tubes of paintballs, some red, some blue.

“Ivan. Dude.” Alfred slung the gun over his shoulder and smirked. “You know, if we’re playing paintball, I’m gonna kick your _ass._ ”

“I hope you do.” Ivan took one of the chest guards. “It will make me feel better if we ever get into another shootout.”

Alfred laughed. “Well, now that we brought it up, how do you think you’re gonna do with that limp? This totally isn’t fair. I’ll feel bad when I win.”

Ivan started gearing up in silence. Alfred snickered and did the same. He felt grateful for the shade casting over them, especially once he secured his helmet. His breath rasped hot against the mouthguard.

“I call blue team,” Alfred said, already loading the blue paint into his gun. Ivan nodded and began filling his with red.

“I am going to give you a head start.”

Alfred raised his brows and indicated Ivan’s injured leg with his gun. “You sure about that, big fella? Seems like you could use the handicap.”

“I am going to give you a head start,” Ivan repeated, his eyes invisible behind his visor. “You will be grateful I did.”

“I won’t argue twice.” Alfred shrugged before making sure his gear was strapped snugly in place. He stole a final glance at Ivan, who looked particularly villainous in his layers of black armor. At last, he held out a hand to shake. “May the best man win, huh?”

Ivan stepped forward. His hand clamped like iron around Alfred’s own. They shook, and Alfred started into the woods. He expected Ivan to follow, or to at least create his own path into the foliage. Instead, he stood there, and Alfred couldn’t see his eyes beneath the dark Lexan, but he could _feel_ that gaze, tracking him, predicting his next moves. Alfred didn’t give Ivan the satisfaction of seeing him run. As soon as he was hidden by towering stalks of bark, though, he bolted.

The forest grew darker the farther he went. Nature’s shroud turned his vision to shades of muted greens and browns. He zigzagged through patchy grass and mud-damp leaves. Adrenaline rippled through him, made his heart beat fast and his breaths turn deep. He used to play paintball often back in Alabama. It was easier then because Alfred’s grandpa owned a large stretch of land, so he was always familiar with his playing ground. Now, a spark of worry as Alfred wondered—How well did Ivan know _this_ forest? Why else would he give him a head start, if he wasn’t confident he could trace Alfred’s path? He was _following him._

“ _Shit_.” Alfred whirled, unloading a scattering of paintballs across the trees. He swore he’d heard something. His eyes darted over a motionless stretch of nature. In the distance, birds sang a too-happy song. He kept moving, slinking through gnarled shrubs.

Alfred had no idea how long his head start would last. He told himself it didn’t matter, because he was faster than Ivan, probably, and his opponent was injured besides. It would be impossible not to hear a heavy man like him limping through the overgrowth. Right? Just in case, Alfred considered climbing a tree. He wouldn’t be seen up high, and his vantage would certainly assist him. Then again, if he _was_ spotted, he’d be screwed unless he could figure out how to pull off some Tarzan shit really well, really fast.

A whisper of Kevlan against bark jerked him into action. He spun around, spraying his surroundings with blue paint. He heard that sonofabitch. He _heard_ him. And now—

“Gig’s up, boss.” Alfred pushed his back up against a tree, peering around it. “I already know where you are, so just come out and surrender like an honorable opponent.”

Alfred waited. When nothing responded but an unseen hawk, he raised his gun up to his shoulder and—There it was again. The faint _hushushush_ of synthetic padding. Alfred’s guard spiked. He turned full circle, then the other way. _Hushushushushush._ Then, realization hit. The one making the noise…was _him._ Had been him all along. Ivan never made a sound and, god, if he hadn’t found him yet, he sure wouldn’t have any trouble following the _bright blue trail_ Alfred had left for him. _Shit._

“Fuck.” Alfred scrambled backwards. His foot crashed through a splintering log, and he went down, sprawling on his back in the dirt. His chest heaved on shallow breaths. Maybe he should stay down, he thought. He’d already made such a ruckus, and such a _mess_ , and he still didn’t know where Ivan was, and—

“What happened to ‘kicking my ass?’”

Alfred rolled just as a barrage of paint bloodied the space where he’d lain. His heart pelted against his ribs, and a string of curses fled his lips. He ducked around a tree, searching for the source of Ivan’s voice. _Where the hell was he?_ How had Alfred not heard his approach? He dared a glance around the bend. His vision exploded in a mess of red paint.

“Holy _shit._ ” Alfred swiped uselessly at his visor with one hand, firing blindly with the other. He heard the rustling of leaves, didn’t hesitate, took off after it. Fine, he thought, no more hiding. It was time to take this battle to close-quarters.

Alfred squinted through the crimson streaks on his visor. He caught a black blur of motion and fired again. This time, he heard a grunt, the _thud_ of a target being struck. He tilted his head back to peer beneath his goggles and, _yes._ The back of Ivan’s neck dripped blue where his guard didn’t quite cover. That would leave a nasty welt, Alfred decided, and felt rather pleased with himself. Then Ivan twisted around to look at him, and his pride withered into _desperation._

Alfred took cover behind a tree. Heavy pellets rained down behind him. They splashed up over his arm, dappled him with a bloody spray, and he supposed he was just glad Ivan advocated for proper headgear or else he’d be _blind._

When the cascade of bullets finally ceased, Alfred tumbled into the underbrush. He steadied his gun, waiting for Ivan to strike, and _there._ A dark mask poked around the base of a maple tree. Alfred fired. Ivan fired back. A blast of paint punched him in the chest, knocked the wind from his lungs. He staggered upright, began to retreat, and another slew of bullets drilled into his back. A fragile noise escaped him. _That_ was going to bruise.

“Gimme a _break,_ ” Alfred muttered, and tripped behind another pair of trees, fighting to catch his breath. His throat burned, his hair plastered to his brow. He was tempted to pull off his helmet, just to wipe the sweat from his eyes, but he was pretty sure if he did that, Ivan would _actually fucking kill him._ He stayed still and tried to estimate how much ammo he had left.

When Alfred raised his eyes from his gun, his heart froze. Ivan was there, standing just a few yards ahead of him, and _how?_ How could a man so big move like a fucking _panther_ without busting the stitches in his leg?

_His leg._

Alfred thought it might be foul play, but Ivan was already aiming for his chest again, apparently eager to see how many ribs he could bruise by the end. If they were playing for points, Alfred knew where the jackpot was. He sighted down Ivan’s left thigh and pulled his trigger.

Ivan’s leg buckled. He crumpled to the ground, hard, and Alfred took off running. Success rushed his body as he sprung over bushes and wood. Then, he thought of the little grunts and growls of pain likely rattling inside Ivan’s mask, and he drew to a halt. The strings of his conscience tugged him back a few steps. When he looked behind him, he saw Ivan lying there, his body shuddering on jerky inhales. _Fuck._ He’d gone too far, hadn’t he? Alfred never could kick that habit, once someone started playing rough with him. _It’s all fun and games,_ Matthew would say, _until Alfred joins in—Then it’s fucking war._

“Man…” Alfred dropped his gun to his side and began his trek back to Ivan. Once he drew up close enough to hear that faint whistling of breath, to see the trembling in his shoulders, his heart twisted. “Hey… Ivan… Are you—?”

Alfred’s query ended in a _whoosh_ of air. A torrent of bullets pounded into him, their impact punishing. They erupted into his shoulder, his chest, his stomach. One struck his neck, made him choke, and then he was on his knees, protecting the soft spots his armor didn’t cover. _That son of a bitch_ , Alfred thought distantly, _he wasn’t hurt. He was laughing._ At the very least, Alfred didn’t have to feel bad when he opened fire in return.

Volleys of red and blue paint colored the wind. Alfred got Ivan a few good times—Once in between the shoulder blades, again in the side of the neck. But, for every shot Alfred made, Ivan hit him with two more. Soon, their little patch of forest stood awash in shades of violet. Alfred’s cheers and Ivan’s breathy laughter echoed above the branches. Then, another sound interrupted, and Alfred’s heart sank. From his shoulder, he heard the defeating _click_ that meant _no more ammo._

“Oh no,” Ivan mused. He stepped away from the tree he’d been using for cover, reached under his chin, and pulled his helmet off. His eyes dazzled with amusement. “Is your gun empty?”

“Fucking Christ.”

Ivan aimed his weapon with one arm. He closed one eye, tilted his head as he sighted down the barrel. Alfred watched, his heart pounding red in his skull. Then, before Ivan could touch the trigger, Alfred lunged. He thrust his gun out in front of him like a shield, used it to knock Ivan’s out of the way. Ivan’s eyes widened. He staggered backwards, trying to reclaim control of his weapon, but Alfred was already upon him. They tumbled to the ground together, and both guns clattered out of reach.

“You are bold,” Ivan said, more of a compliment than an observation. He wrestled against Alfred, fending him off, and his hair feathered across his brow in a youthful mess.

“Wow, can’t believe I upgraded from stupid to bold—” Alfred’s laughter was cut short by Ivan using his weight against him, throwing him into the dirt. They became a tangle of armored limbs and _muscle_ and Alfred’s heart beat harder than it had when he’d been running.

“They’re synonymous,” Ivan said, pinning him. He knocked off Alfred’s helmet, just as Alfred wedged his knee up between them. Ivan shoved it back down. Then, he pinched Alfred’s side, sending a jolt throughout his body. Alfred _squealed._

“Whoa, what the—Really? _Seriously?_ ” Alfred laughed harder when Ivan turned his face away, as though looking for the culprit. Without thinking, Alfred grabbed a handful of pale hair—Thick, _cool_ for some reason—and forced Ivan’s eyes to his. “Oh, no, don’t play innocent now. You know what you did.” Alfred bit his lip, didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was gazing again, because dammit, Ivan was gazing right back. _And his smile…_ “Big bad mob boss really tried to _tickle_ me into submission. Dude, what the fuck kinda pillow fights are you having with your enemies?”

A few last chuckles sighed past Ivan’s lips. Then, there was no more sound except for the gentle rush of the breeze, and the faint panting of their breath. Alfred shifted, wincing at a fresh bruise on his wrist. Ivan’s thumb traced the mark before easing up off of his forearm. Grateful, Alfred shifted a little farther, stretching, stretching—Until Ivan’s gun was in his hand and a blossom of red paint exploded over Ivan’s padded vest. It took a moment for Ivan to register what happened. He blinked, then looked down, slowly touching the tips of his fingers to the mess. A hot wave of satisfaction flooded Alfred’s face as he tossed the gun aside.

“Checkmate, Old Bear,” he said with a grin.

Ivan’s lashes flickered as he met Alfred’s gaze. He looked suspicious, impressed, and entirely unaffected all at the same time. Then, he stood, and Alfred felt a tiny flutter of disappointment.

“Yeah. Yeah, guess it’s time to go. You’re right, yeah.” Alfred started to pull himself up, when Ivan’s hand appeared in front of him. He smiled and accepted the help to his feet. An aching throb climbed the ladder of his spine. Not that he minded. “Holy hell, I could go for a massage right now.”

“We will have to get you home first.”

“Yeah…” Alfred trailed off, his brow furrowing at the implications hidden in those words. Was Ivan suggesting he was going to take him home, personally? Until now, Alfred always had to take a bus or taxi back to his house. The lines between work and domesticity never blurred between them. More than that, though—Did Ivan just imply that, once they reached Alfred’s home, he was going to _get a massage?_

“Gather our things.” Ivan began walking, stiffly, toward the thinning tree line. Alfred’s heart stumbled as he thought, he wouldn’t mind if _Ivan_ was the only one getting a massage, as long as he could be the one to offer it. He forced the thought away and began collecting their gear.

“Right behind you, boss!”

By the time they reached the car, the sun had dissolved behind a blushing horizon. Alfred watched Ivan strip off his armor, too distracted to do the same. He ended up struggling out of his padding from the passenger seat, his movements limited by the confines of his space. As one hour slipped into two, the dull ache in Alfred’s body sharpened to distinct points of discomfort. He’d discovered a few nasty welts already; the rest were hidden by his clothes and would likely make showering a _bitch._ But he’d have to shower anyway. He was too sweaty and muddy and…hot, after today.

And Ivan did drive him home.

Alfred didn’t fully register that fact until they were both sitting in the parking garage around the corner. The engine went silent, replaced by a low fluorescent hum. Alfred toyed with the door handle. He didn’t really want to go yet, but he wasn’t sure how long he could stay. Until his bruises healed, if he had it his way.

“I had a good time.” Alfred studied Ivan’s profile. The lights above them flickered, casting strange shadows across his face. “Especially when I _won._ ”

That earned him a little chuckle. “I am fairly certain I hit you twice as much as you hit me.”

“Guess we’ll just have to count the bruises, huh?” Those words came without warning. Alfred prepared something else to say, a joke to ease the flirtatious weight of his suggestion. Ivan spoke before he had the chance.

“Why do you think I parked here, instead of pulling over outside your apartment?” A small smile traced the edges of his mouth, deepened the shadows there. Then, more seriously, “I need to check on my leg.”

“Oh.” Alfred rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “Yeah, sorry about that. I’m not really good at knowing when to stop.” Then, as though to prove his point, he added, “And here I thought you were coming in to give me that massage I was talking about earlier.”

Ivan didn’t say anything, but Alfred knew by now that his silence wasn’t a bad thing. He followed when Ivan stepped out of the car, leading the way down the sidewalk. For some reason, it didn’t even bother him that Ivan had never asked for his address. He hadn’t even used GPS while driving. It would have felt strange if he had, Alfred decided. Ivan seemed above all that _new-age technology_ , even though he couldn’t be that old, really. Alfred nearly asked, when suddenly they were on his doorstep, and Ivan was gesturing for him to let them inside.

“What, you can’t get in on your own?” Alfred teased, fishing his house key from his pocket.

“It would be tricky with your new security system.” Ivan filled the space behind him when he moved to unlock the door. A chill traced his shoulder blades. “Which I am happy to see you’ve installed. Good job.”

“Yeah, well, it feels kinda pointless now that the two people in the world I wanted to keep safe aren’t even here, but. What can ya do?” Alfred shrugged. He paused, almost able to feel Ivan’s breath with how close he was standing. Then, he pushed open the front door and stepped aside to grant him access. “Well, here it is! Care for a tour?”

Alfred lost his breath when he turned. Ivan stood right in front of him, close enough for their noses to touch. It was hard not to shrink away from the quiet force of Ivan’s presence. It was even harder to lean _closer_ to him, but Alfred still managed. He just hoped Ivan couldn’t feel the hammering pound of his heart; he seemed too focused on his eyes, anyway.

Ivan stepped past, into the kitchen. Alfred closed his eyes, steadied his breathing. When he shut the door behind them, it was with a welcoming smile. “It’s not much,” he said as he watched Ivan survey the cluttered counters. “And, uh, without Arthur here, it’s a little messy. But it’s home for now.”

“For now?” Ivan slipped off his shoes and drifted from the small dining table to the living room. Alfred stumbled after him in the dark.

“Yeah, for now.” His eyes were adjusting to the gloom but, god, suddenly he couldn’t find any of his freaking light switches and he could only make out the silhouette of Ivan settling in his recliner and all he could think to do was _talk._ “I mean like, New York is nice, but I’ve always been kind of a country boy at heart and, I don’t know, if I had to stay here…for _work_ or something, I totally would. Like I said, it’s nice here, I just—Are you comfy? I can get you an extra pillow or an icepack for your leg or…whatever.”

Ivan groaned low when he sat back in the chair. His arms rested on either side of him, his legs splayed comfortably. He took up _the whole damn seat._ “Ice would be good.”

“Cool.” Alfred tripped on his way to the kitchen, swore softly when he didn’t see any ice in the fridge. An instant later, he remembered to check the freezer. He returned to Ivan, tray in hand, and the lights still weren’t on but that was—fine, because…because it just was. “Ice. Here. How do you want to, like…do this?”

“However you want.” Ivan shrugged. Alfred’s breath hitched. His eyes darted over Ivan’s chest, his wounded leg, because could he _possibly_ be implying—“They are your injuries, after all, and I know I left a lot of them.” When Alfred remembered to look at Ivan’s face, he realized he was smirking.

“Huh?”

“Let’s see.” Just the way Ivan gestured was enough to make Alfred feel exposed, somehow. “I want to count your bruises.”

Alfred shuddered. He licked his lips, forcing himself not to shy from Ivan’s gaze. Only the city lights trickling through the window gave his face any definition. His hair was backlit, like a halo, and Alfred found himself recalling an old lesson from Sunday School: Even the devil had been an angel once.

“You want me to take off my clothes,” Alfred said.

Ivan’s eyes narrowed. That, in itself, was an answer.

“Sweet. Just wanted to make sure we’re on the same page here.” With that, Alfred set aside the ice tray and tugged his t-shirt up over his head. His glasses tangled up in the fabric, and by the time he freed himself, his breaths were already coming faster, his heart thirsting after an unspoken promise.

He dropped his shirt and stood there, hair rucked into a golden spray, his face flushed warm and red. Lean muscle caught the streetlight, which shimmered over tan skin. Alfred sucked in his gut to emphasize his best features. It was a good thing he’d already started working on his “beach bod” for the summer, he thought.

Ivan appraised him with unconcealed scrutiny. He seemed curious, with his head cocked sideways and his eyes open wide. Then, he must have approved, because he beckoned Alfred forward.

“I thought we were icing your leg.” Alfred breathed a shaky laugh. He retrieved the ice tray and edged forward, a little more, _closer,_ until his shoes grazed Ivan’s toes. “Uh. You want this?”

Ivan’s eyes explored Alfred’s abdomen. He sketched patterns along swollen skin and rising welts. Alfred found himself following Ivan’s gaze with his fingers. He traced a tender bruise upon his ribs, a red mark on his stomach. His touch traveled lower, caressing the aching swell of his hip. Ivan hummed, and Alfred melted into that sound. He hardly noticed when Ivan accepted the ice tray.

Ivan popped a single cube from its place, pinning it between two fingers. A bead of water raced down his forearm, and Alfred watched until it _plopped_ onto the chair cushion. Then, Ivan brought the ice to his mouth and dragged his tongue across the surface. His eyes, half-lidded, never strayed from Alfred’s own.

“So it does not stick,” Ivan said, but the words sounded foreign to Alfred. He didn’t understand why Ivan felt the need to explain, couldn’t figure out why it mattered. Why did _anything_ matter, except the pink of Ivan’s tongue, and the rolling ache in his gut?

Then, something else mattered: The— _ah—_ cold of Ivan’s touch as he pressed the ice to Alfred’s skin. Alfred’s muscles jerked beneath the frozen cube. It slid over bruised ribs, making him tremble just beneath the skin. Alfred inhaled slowly, mesmerized by the deliberateness of Ivan’s motions. When the ice touched his nipple, he gasped.

“Don’t have a bruise there,” he said, laughing weakly. His hands had gone up to catch Ivan’s own, but Ivan merely looked at him, nudged Alfred away, and kept moving.

A slick, cold trail glossed Alfred’s skin. Goosebumps spilled along his flesh, and he held his breath whenever the chill bit him too hard. Ivan slid between red welts and purple bruises, lingering on whatever places made Alfred squirm the most. Eventually, Alfred closed his eyes, and that was—worse, because he couldn’t predict where Ivan would touch him next, but better because, well, he loved a surprise. His muscles twitched and shuddered with every frozen kiss.

“That’s all.” Ivan’s voice rumbled above the rush of Alfred’s heart. He blinked his eyes open, examined the gleaming trails of wetness sprawling over his body. Ivan’s fingers settled on a point beneath his ribcage, but the ice had melted and gone.

“Oh.” Alfred blinked a few more times, dazed. Here was Ivan Braginsky, his boss, the Old Bear, tugging on the frayed ends of his nerves, _touching_ him. His body throbbed as his aches melted into something sweeter. He tried not to sound too eager when he said, “We could get a new one?”

Ivan’s chuckle made Alfred too hot, too fast. The quick switch from cold to warm dizzied him. “I thought we came in to check my leg.”

“Yeah,” Alfred said, too quickly. Little fireworks of alarm went off in his head. “Yeah, we totally did. I can take care of that. Here, did you want me to…?”

Ivan’s hand curled behind Alfred’s ear. He froze, then allowed Ivan to guide his gaze downward, until he was looking at his injured thigh. And, not far from that—

“Oh. Fuck.” Alfred’s breath stuttered past dry lips. There, beneath Ivan’s belt buckle, something heavy strained against the fabric of his jeans.

“It would be easiest to work with the pants out of the way. Don’t you think?”

Alfred didn’t need to be told twice. He went to his knees on the carpet and set to unfastening Ivan’s belt. His hands shook while he worked. He told himself it was from the ice, but his face felt too hot for him to be convinced. He shivered when callused fingers spread through his hair.

“I cannot decide which you are more obsessed with: The idea of power, or me.” Ivan settled back as Alfred plucked apart the buttons on his jeans. Alfred hesitated then, because he didn’t know if he could possibly be doing the right thing, _this felt like a dream,_ and his head was spinning, but then Ivan put a hand on his back to urge him on. “Although, I suppose this is not a very _powerful_ position for you.”

Another weak laugh. “Sorry, but getting permission to help _you?_ The most stubborn dude in the freaking USA? That’s powerful.” Alfred felt a heavy weight against his forearm, where it rested in Ivan’s lap. He swallowed, grinned, adding, “And giving you a massive boner is, like, equally powerful, in my opinion.”

His hands lingered on the fastenings of Ivan’s pants. He was torn between risking an overstep of boundaries and waiting patiently for further command. He didn’t realize it before, but Alfred was eager to see Ivan’s _scars_ again.

“You remember I’ve told you there are _consequences_ for your actions?” Ivan ruffled Alfred’s hair again, and Alfred leaned into the touch. Then, Ivan shifted his bad leg, grunting softly. “You want to see so badly, you can see. But you will finish what you started.”

That was not a request. Alfred felt his blood shiver, a slow trickle of liquid warmth. He tugged on Ivan’s pants with sweaty hands, and Ivan shifted to help him slide them down, just a little. Just enough.

“Whoa…” Alfred said, breathless. Jagged, pink scar tissue caught the light from outside. It etched sprawling cursive into Ivan’s thighs, his hips. Alfred touched one, his finger skipping lightly over ridged flesh, and wondered where they’d come from. The wound on Ivan’s thigh was the freshest, but it wasn’t the deepest one he could see.

And of course, there, between those scarred and welted legs, another stretch of skin caught Alfred’s attention. His lips trembled into a smile when he said, “This…is gonna be a _bitch_ to deepthroat.”

Ivan made a noise that might have been appreciation. Alfred tuned into those sounds, hyperaware of every shift in his breathing, every hum of delight. When Ivan spoke again, his voice sounded raw. “Really? And I’m only half-hard…”

Alfred’s fingers twitched around the base of Ivan’s cock. It was _thick_ , a smooth sweep of pale skin accented by faint blue veins. Alfred traced one with his thumb, satisfied when Ivan stiffened in his hand.

“Well?” Ivan relaxed, his lips parting around a warm sigh. “You’d better get to work.”

Alfred flushed, from his cheeks to the backs of his heels. He’d lost the ability to form coherent thoughts; all that ran through his mind was a dizzying medley of surprise and disbelief. He sank lower on his knees. Tentatively, his tongue nudged past dry lips. He touched the tip of it to Ivan's skin. He wasn’t sure why he expected him to feel cold. Ivan tasted warm, a little salty, and saliva flooded Alfred’s mouth. He shivered when Ivan touched the side of his neck.

“Have you done this before?” he asked, and Alfred could hear the smirk in his voice, teasing him. Alfred swallowed.

“‘Course I’ve done this before.” Alfred closed his eyes when rough fingers carded up through his hair. He turned his cheek into that cool palm. “What, should I have put it on my resume?”

Ivan hummed, deep. His hand fisted lightly in Alfred’s hair, guiding him in. Alfred’s breath stuttered. He glanced up, blue eyes bright where they met Ivan’s in the dark. The older man tilted his head.

“Open your mouth.”

Alfred did, if only to catch the breath that escaped him. He smiled, crooked. “Never thought I’d hear you say…” A sharp tug on his hair shut him up. He opened his mouth wider, and Ivan made a sound of approval, coaxing him in close. Slowly, the head of Ivan’s cock slid along his tongue.

Alfred gave a shaky exhale. He rolled the flat of his tongue over Ivan’s skin. It was smooth, slick with spit. Alfred made a hungry noise in the back of his throat. He closed his mouth around him, licking his way into a tender slit. His own cock jumped when Ivan groaned. A gnawing ache of arousal built behind his groin. Determined, Alfred bobbed his head, caressing the underside of Ivan’s length. Then he sucked, and Ivan’s hips twitched. He was making Ivan feel _good_. That thought alone excited him, made him harder. He sucked again. Ivan stopped him with a grunt.

“Go slow.” It was almost a threat, spoken in that low growl of a voice. Alfred froze. His face burned as he withdrew, saliva stringing between his lips and Ivan’s skin. 

Before he could retreat entirely, Ivan caught the back of his head. Alfred’s breath hitched, his eyes flashing overtop of his glasses. Ivan’s cock pulsed where it rested against Alfred’s bottom lip. Alfred flicked his tongue, experimental. Ivan held his gaze, didn’t stop him, so Alfred rubbed his tongue against that smooth length of skin once more, and felt satisfied when Ivan’s eyes fluttered shut, his head tipping back against the chair. _Go slow,_ Alfred repeated to himself. He could go slow.

With long, hot strokes, Alfred explored the shape of Ivan’s cock. He licked a warm line upwards before zigzagging back down. His lips traced a smooth pink head, flushing hot when he felt Ivan _throb_ against him. It felt like a fantasy, one he’d wanted for too long, but the scars on Ivan’s thighs were all too real. He only wondered how long Ivan had wanted this too.

“Rub your tongue over the tip. Little circles. Do it slowly.”

Alfred did as he was told. His tongue swirled along the head of him before withdrawing. He repeated the motion. Saliva clung to the tip of his tongue, making it slip and slide while he worked. Then, he slid Ivan into his mouth, just the tip of him. His cock weighed on Alfred’s tongue, pushing up against the roof of his mouth. He held it in place as his tongue pulsed, again and again, over that sensitive head.

“Good. Very good.” Ivan nudged his hips up, so Alfred took more of him inside, humming around the newfound girth. “Your mouth is so warm… And _wet…_ Do you like sucking on cock like this?”

Alfred made a stuck noise in the back of his throat. And Ivan’s cock slid deeper, as though chasing that sound. It made Alfred’s mouth water. He closed his eyes, varying the strokes of his tongue. Long, then short. Quick, faster, then a slow drag across the tip.

“Oh, you do… I like it, too.” Ivan’s hips had started up a rhythm, rocking slowly in and out of Alfred’s mouth. “I like it so much, I could bend you over that coffee table and rub my cock right up between those tight little ass cheeks of yours, but I think I will keep doing this instead.”

Alfred choked on another sound of _wanting._ He sucked on Ivan’s cock, and his own throbbed between his legs. How nice it would feel to have someone jerking him off—Or, better yet, bending him over to fuck from behind. He wondered if he’d even be able to take Ivan like that, big as he was. The stretch alone would get him dripping.

“Aw, poor baby…” Ivan cooed from above. His foot shifted, until he was pressing down into Alfred’s crotch. Alfred whimpered, resisting the urge to rub up against him for some kind of _friction._ “Is that what you want? You want to suck me so good that I just _need_ to grind into you? Play with your cock a little, maybe?”

That was it. Alfred had to undo his belt at the very _least._ He trapped Ivan’s cock between his tongue and the roof of his mouth. His hands, as soon as they were free, moved to pull open his pants. Ivan didn’t stop thrusting into him in fragile little increments, and Alfred moved his head into the rhythm. Ivan’s heel brushed the front of his boxers, made him squirm. That seemed to please him.

“I want you to suck me,” Ivan said, “just like you did before.”

So, Alfred sucked. He felt Ivan’s cock pushing and straining toward the back of his throat. He bobbed his head while he worked, suckling on him, never stopping. Ivan’s breaths were coming faster, and Alfred matched that pace. His tongue swiped, up and down, over Ivan’s skin. He sucked hard on an upstroke, and his cock twitched when Ivan moaned.

“Good boy… That’s a very good boy, Alfred.” Ivan purred. Heat shuddered down Alfred’s body pooling at the base of his spine. He arched his back and his jeans rode lower on his hips. “Do you taste that? See what you're doing to me?”

Ivan dragged Alfred’s head back, even as Alfred made a delicate sound of desperation. He was drooling, but once his tongue traced back to the head of Ivan’s cock, he tasted something else. It was sweet and salty and _warm._ Pre-cum clung between Ivan’s flesh and Alfred’s lips. He tried to lap it up, but Ivan’s cock twitched, and more oozed out.

“Oh, but look at what I’m doing to _you._ You’re so hard, I wonder if you’ll last as long as I do.” Ivan breathed a warm laugh. The sound flooded Alfred’s body, knotting up tight behind his balls. Without thinking, he moved to free himself from his boxers. Ivan kicked his hands out of the way. “Stop touching yourself. Put your hands on me instead.”

Reluctantly, Alfred obeyed. One hand curled around Ivan’s cock. He gasped when he realized there was still _so much more of him_ that didn’t fit in his mouth. His other hand settled on Ivan’s hip, feeling him shift and twitch whenever Alfred licked a particularly tender spot. Then, Ivan started bucking up, deeper, into Alfred’s mouth. Alfred did his best to ride those uneven jerks.

“You fucking love my cock, don’t you?” Ivan asked, his voice shredded. “If you’re a good boy, Alfred, you can jerk off on it. I might even let you bounce on it a little. I wonder how you’ll moan when I hit that sweet spot for you.”

This time, Alfred’s fantasy didn’t end at the stretch. He imagined Ivan pushing into him, inch by inch, slick with Alfred’s spit and his own pre-cum. He could almost feel the burn, the jolt of pleasure as Ivan bumped his prostate. And he would grind into him, again and again, with the same uneven thrusts he used to fuck Alfred’s mouth. The vibrations of Alfred’s moan trembled up Ivan’s cock.

“Mmm… I’m so close to cumming on that pretty face of yours.” As evidence, another trickle of cum pulsed from Ivan’s cock. Alfred felt his groin respond with a tight, hot _spasm_. He rocked his hips, eager to rub against _something,_ even if it was just the inside of his underwear. Ivan noticed, groaning pleasantly. “Lick it up. Lick up my cum. Yes, you _like_ that... There you go. Good, good boy…”

Alfred made a frustrated, helpless little noise. He needed release. He needed to be _touched._ But all he could do was rub Ivan off with short, sharp jerks and pretend it was himself. He could feel Ivan’s cock swelling in his mouth, twitching in response to every touch. He was close, _he was close,_ and he wouldn’t stop _dripping with pleasure._

“More just keeps coming out, doesn’t it? Fuck, look at the mess you’re making. Your mouth is so sticky, and I’m not even done fucking it yet.”

The strokes of Alfred’s tongue came short and fast. He jerked his hips just as quick, desperate for some friction. Ivan had joked earlier about him not being in a powerful position, but Alfred knew _this_ —Sitting down on his knees, making the Old Bear shiver and groan and cum in his mouth—was the most powerful he’d ever felt.

“Start sucking. Move your head up and down. Faster. _Faster_.” Ivan’s hand fisted in Alfred’s hair. He pulled, too hard, and Alfred opened his mouth wide on a moan. Ivan took the opportunity to push into him, deep. And Alfred took it, forcing himself to accept as much of Ivan’s length as he could. His jaw ached, and Ivan filled every part of him. “God, I could fuck your mouth until I’m squirting down your throat. That’s _good_.”

Ivan’s voice broke on a groan. His cock shivered, swelled, and Alfred was sure he’d cum too, even without even being _touched_ , but—But then—Then, a light came on. Behind them. And suddenly, Alfred was staggering to his feet, and Ivan was tugging his coat across his lap, and Alfred was blinking a familiar silhouette into focus.

“Um, sorry, am I…” Matthew shuffled in the bedroom doorway. He looked pale, sleep-tousled, and thoroughly, entirely awkward. “Interrupting…?”

“Hey! Mattie!” Alfred laughed, wincing at the sudden ache in his throat. He fumbled his zipper shut and shifted his weight to the other foot. “What are you doing home? I thought you were…”

“Yeah. Yeah, I was. At the hospital. Francis brought me home today. From the…hospital.” Matthew took a step back. His eyes darted between Alfred and Ivan, lingered on Ivan, then dropped to the floor. “So, this is…?”

Ivan fidgeted behind Alfred, and Alfred stepped in front of him. “That’s good! No, that’s really good! That you’re home. Uh, so you’re sleeping in my room now?”

“I just figure, with Arthur gone for a while, there’s enough space that I don’t have to, uh, take the…couch.” A heavy pause. Then, “Did you want a light on, er…?”

“Oh! What? Nah. Ivan was just. Heading out. So…” Alfred spun around. He was just grateful the light from the hallway had blinded him a bit, so he couldn’t make out Ivan’s expression. “I’ll definitely get those papers filled out for ya. See you at work?”

Ivan mumbled a goodnight, ducked his head, and shuffled out of the room. Alfred and Matthew both watched him go. Then, after the front door swung shut, they stood in silence. Alfred made a definite decision then: Paintball was the only time he’d _choose_ to have blue balls.

“Okay,” Matthew said after a minute. “So, I think I’m gonna go kill myself now.”

“Oh, hey, no, no, no! You’re good! It was nothing. You’re fine.” Alfred grinned, wiped his chin on his shoulder, and grinned some more. “Actually, hey, why don’t I take the couch tonight? You’re healing, you need your rest, and I know I’m like, the loudest sonofabitch roommate ever, what with all my midnight snacking and comedy binges, so.”

Matthew shook his head and sighed. “Whatever, Al.”

With that, Matthew hurried to the kitchen, grabbed a carton of juice from the fridge, and disappeared into the bedroom. The door clicked shut behind him. Alfred stood still for a long time after that. His body was coming down from its pleasured high, but all he could think of was Ivan: His sighs, his moans, the way he’d pulled Alfred’s hair when he was getting close. He wanted to get him _past_ that point, because Ivan was right—He _was_ obsessed with him, _and_ with the power that came with sucking off the most dangerous man in Manhattan.

When Alfred finally pulled out the sofa mattress, it was with a heavy feeling in his gut and an empty feeling in his mouth. The day had passed in a blur. The only evidence he had that any of it _actually happened_ were the welts from paintball, and the roiling ache from his…later activities. And now, Matthew was home, and Arthur wasn’t, and things kept happening way too fast. He supposed he’d have to get used to that, fastness; it was better than moving at the snail’s pace everyone else seemed to expect from him anyway.

With a sigh, Alfred pulled an old quilt up over his shoulder and tossed onto his side. Springs shrieked beneath him, some poked into his ribs where he lay. Now he understood why Mattie wanted to take over Arthur’s bed. This one sucked. But a bed was a bed, and it served its purpose.

At the very least, Alfred could jerk off in peace.


	12. Bear Trap

Alfred really shouldn’t have been surprised when he learned that, on top of his restaurant, Ivan also owned a chain of high-end nightclubs and bars. There was something about the purple lights and velvet stools and artificial fog that _just made sense_ as property of the Old Bear. More surprising was Ivan’s suggestion that Alfred transfer his job to one of those locations and begin work as a bartender.

“This way, it will be harder for your new…‘friends’ to find you at work, and your mouth will still earn you tips,” Ivan had explained. “Drunks are more generous with their money, besides.”

“Is that why you always tipped me so well, back at the restaurant?” Alfred teased, and felt a warm beam of pride when Ivan smiled.

Now, he stood behind a marble countertop, poring over a menu of mixed drinks. So far, the classic Jack and Coke was his favorite; he liked to drink it and, more importantly, he knew how to make it. The other cocktails were a bit more complicated. The Old Fashioned was a popular concoction, difficult in its simplicity. Mojitos were becoming more popular with summer’s hot approach, but they were time-consuming, and no one was satisfied with just one. Too many ingredients went into the Manhattan and everyone wanted it a different way, but Alfred supposed that wasn’t too different from his own experiences in the borough of the same name: Between himself, Ivan, Arthur, Matthew, and the Italians, everyone had their own plans for Manhattan.

Alfred was back to sorting olives out of the cherry tray when a pale figure flickered in the corner of his eye. “Just a sec!” he called, spearing a cherry on a toothpick and popping it into his mouth. He turned, dangling the toothpick between smiling lips. “What can I get—Oh, hey stranger!”

Ivan offered a small smile in return. He slid into a seat at the corner of the bar, smoothing his scarf down with one firm motion. He’d traded in his jeans for black slacks, and his turtleneck for his signature trench coat. Alfred plucked an unopened bottle of vodka off the shelf and brought it over.

“I’m gonna need to see some ID, sir.” Alfred grinned as he leaned across the counter. It was a joke, but genuine curiosity blossomed from that request; to this day, he didn’t know Ivan’s age.

Ivan quirked a brow, a mild smile lingering about his lips. He leaned forward, closing the space between them, and shrugged. “You are just barely old enough to drink, yes?”

“Coming up on twenty-two next month, actually.” Alfred smirked. “But I’m not the one trying to make a purchase right now.”

“Let us just say,” Ivan said, “that I was finishing college when you were finishing kindergarten.”

Alfred blinked his eyes open wide. He searched Ivan’s face, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Alfred had always sensed an air of maturity around this man but, god, _finishing college?_ That had to put Ivan at, what, thirty-five? _Forty?_

“For what it is worth, I did graduate early.” Amused, Ivan took the bottle of vodka and slid back in his seat.

“Okay. Cool. Right, yeah.” Alfred checked to make sure he didn’t have any other customers, then settled more comfortably across from Ivan. “Guess you have a thing for younger guys, then?”

An appreciative chuckle before Ivan said, “Should we not discuss your relationship with your father first?”

“You think I have daddy issues?” Alfred laughed, raucous and high. “Oh man, you just don’t give a shit _what_ you say.” Then, with humor bubbling in his words, Alfred added, “Do ya, daddy?”

There it was again: That quirk in Ivan’s brow, accompanied by the faintest of smiles. It was a devilish look, shrouded in fake innocence. Alfred shivered.

“I wanted to come and see how you are adjusting to your new job.” Ivan gestured vaguely with one hand. “How are you liking it?”

“Oh, dude, I love it here. It’s like a party every time I walk into work.” Alfred beamed. “Never would’ve figured you’d be the type to run a place like this, though, I’ll be honest.”

“It is a bit loud for my taste.” Ivan turned, gazing out over a crowded dance floor. Blaring pop music rattled the DJ stand. Glittery dresses and sequined blazers dazzled under revolving spotlights. All the colors reflected in Ivan’s eyes, making them appear wide and full of wonder. Full of youth. “A good place for people-watching, though.”

“Well, you could always take me to one of the private game rooms,” Alfred said, before he could stop himself. “Only one is being rented out tonight.”

Ivan didn’t reply at first. He surveyed the crowd, writhing and warping like a mirage beneath the fog. He twitched the ends of his scarf over his lap. Other than that, Ivan appeared still as ever, an idol carved from ivory.

“Is this your way of getting out of work early?”

“Hey, I’m just saying?” Alfred tugged the bottle of vodka out from under Ivan’s hand, drawing his attention. His face warmed under that gaze. His thoughts drifted back to paintballs and ice cubes and rushed rendezvous. “You’re here, and I’m here, and this would be a perfect opportunity for a second date. Don’t you think?”

“Second date,” Ivan repeated, and now, his tone was hard to read.

“Well, yeah.” Alfred’s face burned hotter, but he didn’t falter. His smile grew. “Paintball was the first, wasn’t it?”

Ivan studied him for a long moment. Alfred stared right back, unabashed. Ivan Braginsky was an intimidating presence. He knew his way around a gun and his hands were huge and rough and made for choking. But Alfred meant what he’d said that night in his Cadillac. He wasn’t scared of him.

At last, Ivan’s eyes softened. He looked ready to speak when something else stole his focus. His brow furrowed as he rummaged through his pockets, withdrawing a buzzing cellphone. Ivan held up a finger, turned halfway around, and answered, “Speak.”

And just like that, Ivan entered Boss Mode. His expression went stony and the air around him seemed to drop a few degrees. Alfred got the distinct impression he shouldn’t be standing so close, lest he be accused of eavesdropping. But then, Ivan started speaking Russian, so it didn’t matter.

“Excuse me, can I get another Manhattan over here?”

Alfred snapped back to reality. That was right: Without Ivan’s spell hanging over the both of them, there was nothing stopping his customers from demanding his attention. His time was no longer occupied by the menacing boss man in the dark coat, after all.

“Coming right at ya!” Alfred called, and set to work mixing whiskey, bitters, and vermouth. He decided then, if someone wanted their drink made special, they would have to pay extra. Otherwise, Alfred was doing things _his_ way.

“Manhattan!” Alfred called, and slid the drink across the bar. A rush of faces blurred around him and he smiled at them all. He wouldn’t remember any of them the next day, but he wanted them to remember him. One day, he told himself, they would.

“You must be bloody joking.”

A familiar accent pricked Alfred’s ears. He froze in place.

“You brought me here on purpose, didn’t you? You knew he was here, and you dragged me along to try and play matchmaker.”

“No, no, _cherí._ What sort of man _wants_ his date distracted by past lovers? Enough of that, now. He’ll hear. Alfred! Oh, Alfred! My beautiful baby brother, how are we holding up?”

Alfred twitched a smile into place. He wheeled around to the corner of the bar, where Arthur Kirkland slumped heavily on one arm. An assortment of empty mugs sat scattered around him. At his side, Francis Bonnefoy nursed a tall glass of wine. Alfred surmised, from the way he swayed in his seat, that it wasn’t his first. He only wished he had a drink of his own about now.

“Whoa! Small world! What’re you douchebags doing here?” Alfred approached with an easy bounce in his step. He reached to gather up some of the glassware. “Here, let me get these out of your way.”

“Do not trouble yourself, darling,” Francis waved him away, with a meaningful glance at Arthur. “We’re enjoying our own company just fine.”

“No, by all means.” Arthur sat back with a fresh mug in hand. Amber liquid sloshed over the side and onto his shirt, the buttons of which were plucked apart in careless disorder. “I wouldn’t mind seeing him do a bit of work. If he’s capable of such a thing. Lord knows the state of our kitchen suggests otherwise.”

Alfred raised his brows, his mouth hanging open on a wordless smile. Arthur smirked back at him without emotion. Alfred’s lips snapped shut, tightening around the edges. He’d planned to avoid confrontation. But Arthur engaged first so, really, this wasn’t his fault. He began stacking the empty cups.

“Actually, the house is looking pretty good these days.” Alfred shrugged, discarding the dregs of one glass. “I’m starting to think you used to dirty the place up real good just so you could bitch at us for not cleaning it.”

“I heard a young lady order a Manhattan not long ago. I’ll have one as well, if you would be so accommodating.” Francis’s smile didn’t cover his annoyance. Because, oh, that was right: Alfred was interrupting his date. He almost felt bad for Francis, lusting after a dude so clearly hung up on his ex. Not that he could blame Arthur for that, really. Alfred was riding a steady path to power, and Arthur was…drunk. Not for the first time this week, Alfred guessed.

“Your tie came undone,” Alfred pointed out, and Arthur snatched the green strip of fabric off his collar in defiance. “One Manhattan, coming up.”

“That’s right. Flutter away from the conversation now that you’ve had the last word. Go on.” Arthur drained the rest of his glass, slammed it on the table, and snapped his fingers. “Why don’t you get me another cup’a rum while you’re at it, please, waiter sir.”

Alfred chewed the inside of his cheek. The corner of his mouth quirked, but he forgot to make his eyes follow suit. Dully, they took in Arthur’s rumpled and haughty display. The slurred speech, the dismissive gestures, all of it reminded him of someone. Someone he wasn’t fond of. Someone who’d bullied and belittled him and _shot his boss in the leg._ He’d be lying if he said a bit of vicarious revenge wouldn’t feel good.

“I think you’ve had enough, actually.” Alfred’s grin twisted up tighter. He took the last cup from Arthur’s side. “So sorry.”

“Excuse me.” Arthur grabbed the handle of the mug before Alfred could pull it away. “You’re telling me what to do now? Mister ‘I’ll shoot myself in the foot just because you told me not to?’ Rebel of the year? _You’re_ playing mum?”

“All for you, sugar,” Alfred drawled. “Because I _care._ ”

“Yes, I’m _sure._ ” Arthur lurched to his feet, nearly toppling his stool before Francis caught it. “There you go again, paying all this affectionate lip service while your actions say the precise opposite.”

Alfred had to laugh. Here was Arthur, unbalanced and spiteful and red in the face, and Alfred—simply couldn’t be bothered. He tugged the mug from Arthur’s hand, too easily. His smile sharpened. “Francis, dude, tell your playdate to chiiill.”

“Arthur, if ever the universe wanted to send a message, this one is clear: Find another place to drown your sorrows. Preferably _not_ the one your ex works at.” Francis reached to take Arthur’s sleeve, and Arthur snatched his arm away just as quickly.

“I can handle myself, thank you kindly.” Arthur’s palms slammed on the marble countertop. He was drawing looks now, but his eyes didn’t stray from Alfred. “The same can’t be said for _someone_ here. Honestly, Alfred, you never needed a boyfriend. You needed a _parent._ Someone to straighten your ties and clean your dishes and make your bed. The proof is right here! Just look at what happened the moment I left. You can’t even manage yourself well enough to keep out of _life-threatening situations._ ”

Alfred didn’t even laugh that time. He didn’t say anything at all—He thought Ivan might be quite proud of him for that. He only turned and began to file away the dirty cups. If Alfred had learned anything these past few months of being harassed and beaten down, it was that nothing stung quite like silence. In silence, there lay an unspoken lash: You aren’t even _worth_ a response.

“Oh? Running off? Afraid of a bit of a scrap, are we?”

Pride prickled Alfred’s skin. He tried to ignore that too, but a nagging thought tensed his jaw: _They’ll just go on thinking they can treat you this way, if you keep letting them get away with it_.

“Ah, no, I understand. You don’t want to upset your brand-new daddy by causing a scene in his fancy nightclub. This is _his_ nightclub, isn’t it? Unless you’re fucking some other strapping entrepreneur—I said keep off me, toad.” Arthur staggered out of Francis’s reach. “I must say, your new fling is _quite_ the catch. Old enough to be your father, isn’t he? Fits the bill quite well. Except for the fact he’s trying to get you _killed._ Dear god, and you’re just letting him. I always knew you were a bit misguided, Al, but I never imagined you to be _stupid._ ”

“Dude.” Alfred felt the smile cut across his face. He felt his body blur into motion, and he felt Arthur’s shirt collar crumple in his fists. He’d told himself he wouldn’t engage, but the fire in his blood had other plans. “I am gonna straight _throw_ you out of here.”

“What a _hero_ you are, protecting the honor of the man who’d sooner see you shot than sitting back home with the people that love you.” Arthur’s lip curled. He fought for a moment to free himself, and when that didn’t work, he punched him.

Stars exploded behind Alfred’s eyes. He felt more shocked than hurt—Arthur hadn’t struck him nearly as hard as Alfred knew he was capable—but, more than that, Alfred felt _justified._ A high bubble of laughter caught up in his throat as he ducked away from another blow. He caught Arthur’s right hand, then his left, then he scrambled over the counter to restrain him more carefully. Arthur struggled and spat all the while. That gentlemanly composure he so prided himself on had slipped away in the booze. _Not my problem,_ Alfred thought, and wrestled Arthur into a chokehold.

“Enough of this!” Francis tried to get between them, recoiling from a stray fist. “Now is not the time to be publicly releasing your sexual tensions.”

“ _Relax,_ ” Alfred hissed through grinning teeth. Arthur lurched back and forth, fighting Alfred’s grip, until Alfred released him, and he fell into the counter. Alfred didn’t stop to help steady him. “I didn’t even hit him. But that’ll change if you don’t get him out of my face. _Pronto._ ”

Francis moved to straighten Arthur up, but Arthur batted him away. So, Francis turned his displeasure on Alfred. His nose crinkled, his eyes dark with guarded disgust. “ _Mon dieu._ He is _drunk_ , Alfred.”

“Then it’s time to go home, yeah?” Alfred rubbed at a sore spot on his cheek. Arthur had started it. For all that he liked to accuse Alfred of being childish and impulsive and crass, _he’d started it._ It was as though Arthur liked to provoke Alfred into behaving the exact ways he claimed to hate, just so he could be _right._ And Alfred didn’t feel bad. Wouldn’t feel bad.

He stepped up to Francis and, any other time, he might have felt guilty for sizing up the smaller man. Not now, though. He watched Francis shrink in his shadow. “My _forgiving nature_ only goes so far.” A pause to let the words sink. Then, “Get him out of here, Francis.”

“Not until I speak with the manager.” Arthur bared his teeth, eyes frenzied and unfocused behind a blaze of green flame. “Because I’ve realized—I’m not mad at you, Al. Truly, I’m not. I know you’ve been influenced poorly by someone who holds a position of power over you, and I just want to _talk_ with him.”

Alfred stared. Somewhere over Arthur’s shoulder, he caught a glimpse of someone tall and broad. Ivan approached casually from behind, as though summoned, and Alfred always had been so impressed by that. Only one thing had changed: Alfred was no longer startled when Ivan materialized like a ghost in the midst of conversation. He’d grown used to it.

“You really want to take this up with Ivan?” Alfred confirmed.

“Whenever he’s finished his blasted phone call.” Arthur sneered. “Do you have any idea what I heard him _saying_ over there? I know you don’t speak Russian, love, but I’ve studied the language well enough to recognize _evil_ when I hear it.”

“Who is evil?”

 _Right on cue_.

“ _Blimey._ ” Arthur wheeled around, fists clenching at his sides. “Listen here, you—”

Arthur froze, eye-level with Ivan’s chest. He blinked, then followed the scarf up to meet that soft, lavender gaze. Arthur’s chin tilted back, far back, to stare up at his self-declared opponent. Alfred knew that look. Arthur was weighing his chances. Ivan tilted his head, scattering pale hair across his brow, and smiled.

“Right, then.” Arthur’s eyes flicked up and down Ivan’s body as he stood down. “Have a bloody good night.”

With that, Arthur snatched his jacket off the back of a chair and strutted toward the exit. Alfred felt triumphant, until he caught Francis’s eye. The man stared, as though he didn’t recognize him.

“So, you got somethin’ to say?” Alfred asked, hooking his thumbs in his pockets.

Francis clicked his tongue, but that was all. He strolled after Arthur, just barely catching him at the front door. Alfred waved until they were out of sight.

“Oh, man!” Alfred punched Ivan twice in the chest, playful. “You saw that? That jackass wanted to start shit with _me_ and, god, I was just not having it. I tried to ignore him at first. Seriously! I was like, ‘okay, I’ll be the better man, I’ll let him run his mouth.’ But you know what I realized?”

Ivan caught Alfred’s fists before he could slug him again. His eyebrows tilted upwards. He frowned before saying, “Walk with me.”

“Sure. But what was I saying? Oh, yeah.” Alfred tripped over himself to keep up with Ivan, who navigated crowds like Moses navigated the Red Sea. “I realized, like, that’s what I’ve _been_ doing. I’ve just been shutting up or playing nice around the people that have been assholes to me, and that sucks.” Alfred’s voice dropped confidentially. “Even when that whole thing happened with Antonio, like… I dunno. I faltered. I felt bad. So, everyone just goes on thinking they can mess with me because I don’t have what it takes to fight back or something. But not anymore. Right? I’m _done_ taking that shit. This is just proof! And I think that’s one of the first steps to getting where you are. Ain’t that right, boss?”

Ivan stopped outside of one of the private game rooms. Purple lights streaked across his face as he flipped through a ring of keys. His lips scarcely moved when he said, “He is your family.”

Alfred’s smile crooked sideways. No, no, no, that wasn’t right. He’d been waiting for praise. For some glimmer of amazement in Ivan’s eyes. He’d done something _right_ tonight. He’d stood up for himself and he hadn’t disobeyed any orders so _why_ was Ivan still looking at him like he was a misled _child?_

“Huh?”

“Refocus your anger, Alfred.” With a jingle of metal, Ivan popped open the door to the game room. A wash of cool, dark air spilled out. “Arthur is not the enemy.”

Ivan slipped past the threshold before Alfred could argue. So, Alfred followed. He felt lost, a little dazed, like someone had told him gravity was a myth and all he could do was float from one place to the next.

The room he drifted into now was spacious, sleek. Neon lights flickered to life on every wall, casting the space in a misty haze of purples, pinks, and blues. White veins ran through the black marble underfoot. Wide, cylindrical aquariums ran from floor to ceiling in every corner. A karaoke machine stood at the head of the room, flanked by towering speakers. The centerpiece, a pool table boasting intricate wood carvings, reflected a technicolor glow.

“It is a bit harder to cheat at Eightball,” Ivan said, propping himself between two cue sticks, “than it is to slip a card up your sleeve.”

Alfred smiled. Once, he might have had the grace to blush, but he and Ivan knew each other well enough now. There was no sense pretending at oblivion.

“Hey, speaking of which.” Alfred shuffled through his pants pocket, coming away with a wallet that felt just a bit heavier these days. He slid the ace of hearts from its sleeve to show it off. “I, uh, I still have this. Is that lame? Probably pretty lame, huh.”

Ivan examined the card from where he stood. First, he squinted, as though trying to recognize what he held. Then, his eyes blinked open wide in bewilderment. It really was times like these that Alfred could imagine how this man used to look when he was younger, before the world had hardened him. Finally, a soft smile touched Ivan’s lips, and Alfred felt his heart swell.

“You kept it,” Ivan said again. He didn’t sound judgmental or mocking like Alfred might have expected from someone else. If anything, Ivan seemed touched.

“Sure did! The very same one. Serious! Check it out.” Alfred stepped closer, wiggling the bent corner of the card for Ivan to see. His smile melted into something sheepish. “I don’t know, it was just, that night… It felt kinda magical, if that makes sense? Like, something I didn’t want to lose.”

“But you did lose,” Ivan teased. He got quiet again before continuing. “You really have such fond memories from that failure of yours? Let’s help you make even more memories tonight, then.” He tossed over a pool stick and Alfred snatched it out of the air with ease. Ivan’s smile quirked again. “Since you enjoy losing so much.”

“Hey Old Bear?” Alfred grinned. “You’re fuckin’ dead.”

It fell on Alfred to set up the table while Ivan poured drinks. Alfred joked that _he_ should be the one handling the alcohol, seeing as he was the bartender and all, but Ivan refused. The drinks Alfred was used to making were too weak for him, Ivan explained, and promptly dumped what must have been six shots of vodka into his glass. Alfred conceded and _thumped_ the cue ball onto the table.

“You wanna break?” Alfred jumped up on the edge of the table and watched intently as Ivan shrugged off his coat and slung it across a nearby chair. Underneath, he wore a black vest and a red dress shirt buttoned up to the chin. There were still moments, though, when Ivan turned his head or shifted his shoulders just so, that gleaming scar tissue caught the light, decorating his throat like tinsel. Alfred lost his breath each time.

Ivan shrugged, extending the breaking stick in his direction. “You racked it, you break it.”

“Man, you _really_ don’t trust me, do you?” Alfred accepted the stick and hopped down to survey the table. The neon luminescence dancing on his lenses made it hard to focus, but he didn’t mind. “What, do you think I intentionally packed it loosely so I could screw you out of a good breaking shot?” A smile escaped him before he could receive an answer. He leaned down to line up his shot and murmured, “Because I totally did. _Shit._ ”

Ivan chuckled behind him. Ice clinked together in the drink he’d fixed for Alfred, and Alfred shivered. Beneath his shirt, bruised skin ached. And dammit, he had to shake that night out of his head because it was distracting him—Ivan was _trying_ to distract him by rattling that ice—and his mouth felt too dry, all of a sudden.

“Alright…” Alfred sighted down the end of his stick. He nudged the cue ball a fraction to the left. Rolled it back to the right. Aimed again. He hadn’t played pool since he’d first arrived in New York, and Arthur had kicked his ass back then. In fact, Arthur had almost kicked Alfred’s ass _tonight_ , with fists instead of games. Yet, somehow, Alfred was the bad guy when he stood up for himself? How did that make any sense? He was sick of being bullied. He didn’t want anyone pushing him around. That was why he was here in the first place, wasn’t it? What was it all _for_ if he was just supposed to sit on his hands and _let people fuck with him?_

A heavy _clack_ as Alfred scattered the balls in every direction. They bounced off the rails, crashed into each other, and Alfred sank two.

“Boo yeah! That what I’m _talking_ about, baby!” Alfred whirled around, smiling while he leaned against his stick. “I call stripes.”

Ivan’s brow furrowed as he looked over the playing field. “That was an angry break. Tell me what you are thinking about.”

“Eh.” Alfred shrugged, missed his next shot, and watched as Ivan approached the table and lined up his cue. “Nothing really. I’m still kinda pissed about the Arthur thing, but I’ll get over it.”

“You think I am wrong about what I said?” Ivan shifted his weight to his good leg before leaning down, miming the shot he was about to take. Going for the six, it appeared. “You aren’t bullying the people beneath you simply because you cannot yet reach the bullies above?”

“Hey, you wanna make this game more interesting?” Alfred crossed behind Ivan, swapping out the breaking stick for a regular cue. He didn’t feel like reflecting on his feelings and motivations, and he certainly didn’t feel like discussing them. He’d only gotten this far, he thought, by artfully ignoring such complications. “We can place bets, offer some incentive?”

“I am not a man you want to owe money, Alfred.” With one crisp shot, Ivan sank the six.

“Okay, how ‘bout…” Alfred watched Ivan line up his next maneuver. He snapped when a new idea struck. “How about, every time I sink a ball, you gotta tell me something about yourself.”

“We are playing slumber party games?” Ivan cursed under his breath as his next ball skipped over the pocket he’d been aiming for. He straightened up and took a swig from his glass. “Like truth or dare?”

“Without the dare part. Sure.”

“I like truth or dare. How’s this,” Ivan turned fully to Alfred. Purple and turquoise highlights shivered down his skin. “If you score a point, you get the truth from me. Fine. But when I score a point, I get a dare out of you.”

A slow smile slid across Alfred’s face. He raised a brow and walked around Ivan, watching him all the while. Ivan himself didn’t move. He looked straight ahead, muscles slack, even when Alfred stood directly behind him. He only turned when Alfred bent to take his next shot. It landed in its pocket.

“You’ve got yourself a deal.” Alfred flashed a smile. “Now, uh, how ‘bout you tell me why you’re so obsessed with me?”

Ivan raised his eyebrows, just slightly. “Aren’t you projecting?”

“Hey, I’m the one asking the questions here, big man.”

Ivan conceded with a shrug. His lip curled when he took another drink. He didn’t lift his eyes from his cup. “You might remind me of someone.”

“Really?” Alfred’s heart kicked up speed as realization seeped through his pores: If he kept scoring, he could actually learn something about the mysterious Old Bear. “Who? A dead lover? An old mentor? Someone from your past whose face you can barely remember? Who is it?”

“That sounds like a question for a future shot.” Ivan gestured to the table.

Alfred snorted and lined up his next strike. Maybe he’d gotten cocky. Maybe overconfidence clouded his aim, because he missed. “Shit.”

Ivan stepped around him and aimed for the ball right next to Alfred’s. It landed with a hollow thud. “That’s a dare from you, yes?”

Now, it was Alfred’s turn to drink. He let the iced cocktail slide smoothly down his throat before answering. “Guess so. Go ahead and hit me, then.”

Ivan leveled a look on him. He was quiet for a minute, as though considering his next demand. Alfred was starting to know better. Ivan had had something in mind since the moment the game was announced. “You will address me by ‘sir’ for the rest of this game.”

Alfred felt something twitch beneath his skin. He laughed and convinced himself it wasn’t nerves. “Oh yeah?”

Ivan said nothing, but his eyes held a clear message. Alfred laughed again, higher.

“I’m surprised you didn’t go for ‘Daddy,” Alfred said, then drawled a sugary, “ _Sir._ ”

“Our relationship has gotten too casual, on your end. You need to remember some formality.” Ivan pushed up his sleeves to prepare his next shot. Alfred watched the muscles in his forearms shift, his tattoo twitching just so. Just as he thought there was no way Ivan would score two shots in a row—he did.

“Fuckin’, really?” Alfred groaned as a small smile ghosted Ivan’s lips. Only three solids left, compared to Alfred’s four stripes. This could be a quick game. “Alright, sir. Fine. Whatcha got for me?”

“Botch your next shot.”

“You serious?” Alfred laughed again, this time because it was kind of funny. He leaned on his pool cue. “What, you don’t have the skill to win naturally, so you need to force me to lose? That it, sir?”

“You know what it is like to use any tactic at your disposal to win.” Ivan stepped forward, and Alfred’s heart almost stopped when Ivan reached into Alfred’s jacket pocket, flipped open his wallet, and indicated the ace of hearts inside. “Do not play coy.”

“Ha… Alright. Got it.”

Ivan had been right: It was harder to cheat at pool than it was to cheat at cards. Yet, Ivan was still managing it, which meant Alfred could too. He just had to play smart. He studied the felt-lined table. Two balls, a solid and a stripe, sat clumped together at the head of the field. The others were scattered, some on the perimeter, others sprawled somewhere in the middle. Alfred leaned over the cue ball, isolated in the bottom left corner. He struck it with his cue. And barely grazed the solid ball he’d been aiming for. It spiraled against the rail, bounced away, and knocked a striped ball into its hole. Alfred bit his lip on a grin. He felt Ivan’s gaze before he saw it, raising his hands in surrender.

“Hey, I was aiming for the solid and I missed. That’s a botched shot if ever I saw one.” Alfred’s smile dripped from his lips. Ivan stared, then tilted his cup in allowance. He didn’t need to voice the praise for Alfred to feel its effect. _Clever boy._ “So, who was it, sir? The person I remind you of?”

Fuchsia light twinkled in Ivan’s eyes, even as his gaze turned inward. He nursed his drink absently, evaluating the pool table without seeing it, and spoke softly when he said, “Myself.”

Alfred’s fingers spasmed over his pool stick. That was a question he wanted to follow up on, for _sure._ But he had to be selective with his queries. He only had three chances left, after all.

“What about the eight?” Alfred leaned over the cue ball, testing one angle that he ultimately decided to abandon. He circled the table before deciding on a new one. Ivan didn’t take his eyes off him. _You really don’t trust me, do you? Especially when I talk._ Alfred couldn’t blame him. Was a little flattered, actually. “Whoever sinks the eight is the winner, right? So, what does the winner get in the end?”

Ivan considered. Alfred felt a flash of heat as his tongue came out to dampen cracked lips. And it might have been the lighting, or the artificial fog, or just the way Alfred’s pulse raced, but he swore Ivan’s gaze turned _hungry._

“When I win,” Ivan said, “I will name my terms. And do not forget my title.”

“I really have to say it every time?” Alfred cracked a grin, caught Ivan’s blank expression, and added, “Sir.”

“In Russia, this is avoided.” Ivan finished off his drink and walked away to mix another. Alfred’s eyes darted back to the pool table. Could he, he wondered, find an upper hand while Ivan was distracted? “We have two forms of the word ‘you.’ There is _ty,_ the informal version one might use with his friends. And there is _vy,_ the form one would use to show respect to his colleague or superior.”

“Sounds a little archaic to me, sir.” Alfred leaned an elbow against the table. His fingers closed around the rail as he considered his own sleight of hand. It hadn’t done him very well in Poker, but Ivan’s back was turned now, and he was talking, and his words sounded just the slightest bit slurred. Maybe, if Alfred could just _nudge_ the nine a little closer to that pocket…

“Were we in Russia, this is how you would address me.” Ivan examined his drink before tipping the vodka bottle back over its rim. “In America, _sir_ will serve the same purpose.”

“I would have to call you that, then? _Vy?_ ” Alfred watched Ivan cringe at his pronunciation. He felt the backs of his fingernails _tap_ against the ball closest his hand. It would be easy, just to… His middle finger twitched, and the ball rolled a few centimeters away. He thrust his hand in his pocket just as Ivan turned, and smiled. “I thought you said friends don’t have to refer to each other like that, all formally?”

“Implying we are friends.” Ivan’s eyes swept over the table. Alfred didn’t let his breath catch or stutter. That would give him away, if nothing else. Instead, he used his pool cue like a walking stick and strode over to the head of the table.

“Was it your turn or mine, sir?”

“Mine.” One smooth step brought Ivan back to the table. Alfred, who’d already balanced his cue between his fingers, did a double take. That wasn’t right. Ivan wasn’t supposed to…

“Hey, wait, but—”

Ivan struck one of his solid balls. It cracked into Alfred’s striped nine, which tumbled far, far away from its intended pocket. “Damn. What is it?”

“It was supposed to be my turn.” Alfred gave a pale smile. That cold gaze settling on his face didn’t do him any favors. “Uh, sir.”

“You just went.”

“Right, but I landed it, remember? I was supposed to go again, sir.”

“You did.” Ivan gave a little frown. He gestured to the stray nine ball. “You hit that one while I was fixing my drink, yes?”

 _Fucking hell._ Alfred’s teeth clenched tighter. “Oh! Right. Yes, sir. Duh. That’s my bad, I forgot.”

“Mmm. Better pay attention.” Ivan purred in that way that gave Alfred goosebumps. They didn’t go away, especially when Ivan circled around to stand at Alfred’s side. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled when Ivan said, “I know I do.”

Alfred tried subtler forms of sabotage, after that: Proposing that they both drink every time one of them missed a shot, knowing full well Ivan had the stronger drink, or “accidentally” brushing Ivan’s arm or leg whenever Ivan moved to take aim. He noticed, after a while, that all this standing around was irritating Ivan’s injured leg. He wondered if he could use that to his advantage, somehow.

“Hey, so, d’you like having your hair played with?” Alfred asked once, when he’d scored a shot sitting on the edge of the table. He reached up, carding his fingers through Ivan’s curls. The alcohol made him fearless enough to do it, and it made Ivan shameless enough to lean into that touch. The way he tilted his head back, the way his eyes fluttered shut behind pale lashes, all of it, made Alfred’s head swim. He tugged lightly, and Ivan gave a throaty hum. “It’s pretty.”

“Be careful,” Ivan warned. He caught Alfred’s hand before he could retreat. “Before your next dare gets you into trouble.”

That was the moment Alfred decided, without an ounce of ambiguity, that he most certainly would _not_ be careful with Ivan Braginsky. But then, when had he ever?

The longer they played, the drunker they grew. By the time they each had one ball left, Alfred had learned, in part, Ivan’s motivations for joining the mob—Family business—and Ivan had dared Alfred to wear his trench coat for the remainder of the match. “I like how you look, wearing my clothes,” Ivan had said and, at first, Alfred had bought it. It was only when he’d gone up to take his next shot that he realized how much the loose sleeves and oversized folds of fabric limited his mobility, interfered with his aim. Besides that, he was sweating his _ass_ off, and being surrounded by Ivan’s scent didn’t exactly help. Even more, Alfred was starting to understand, no matter how much he seemed to learn about Ivan Braginsky, he was no closer to truly knowing the man. That seemed to be just how Ivan liked it.

“I call that pocket, sir.” Alfred pointed with his cue. He owed Ivan a dare, and Ivan owed him a truth, but both of them were saving it for the most opportune moment. Only the eight ball remained.

“Shall I redeem my dare now?”

Alfred chuckled. Ivan stood too close to him. Had been, for the past half hour. Their bodies molded together, tall, broad, hot. Ivan smelled like cigarettes and vodka and something cleaner. The only thing that tempered Alfred’s attraction to that scent was the fact that he’d been surrounded by it since the moment he’d donned Ivan’s coat. Ivan couldn’t distract him now.

Or so Alfred thought, until heavy hands closed around his hips. Alfred stiffened.

“Miss it.” Ivan’s lips grazed Alfred’s ear. His breath felt blissfully cool against the heat of Alfred’s skin. Dizziness washed over him. “You will like the next dare I have for you.”

Alfred ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth. Liquid warmth moved through his veins, and his vision blurred, but not too much for him to lose sight of how close he was to victory. He bent down and let smooth wood glide between his thumb and forefinger. Ivan pressed into him from behind.

“Tell me what dare you have in mind, sir,” Alfred managed. “That’s the truth you owe me.”

Ivan made a gruff sound against his neck. His palms ran firmly over Alfred’s sides. Alfred arched into that touch, dissolving into the rush that came from Ivan’s hands and too much drink. Never did he think he’d be here, rubbing against the rough fabric of Ivan’s pants and knowing, all too intimately, the weight that pressed into the small of his back. A slow crackle of electricity wound up his spine.

“I would tell you to stay like this…” Ivan rocked him forward, then back again, and Alfred stifled a groan. Ivan’s chest rumbled against his shoulder blades before he went on, “So I can fuck you over the table you’ve lost on.”

“Mmm…” Alfred tilted his head back, skewing blonde hair across Ivan’s cheek. Ivan moved his chin, so Alfred could rest more comfortably against his neck. Both of them stood slick with sweat. For Alfred, a mix of alcohol, layered clothing, and close proximity were to blame. He wondered what Ivan’s excuse was.

Whatever it was, Alfred understood that they were playing a new game now. It was less about pool cues and solids and stripes, and more about lingering touches and playful suggestions. Whoever gave in first, that was the loser. And it was difficult, because they both wanted to lose, but pride wouldn’t let them.

“You’d fuck me like this, huh?” Alfred steadied his wrist against the railing and bent down to aim his cue. Ivan grunted softly, pleasantly. “I’m flattered…but I have to say, no. Not tonight.”

Ivan’s hands locked on Alfred’s hips. Now, it was Alfred’s turn to chuckle, a lazy, drunken sound that dripped off his lips like music. He turned to nuzzle in behind Ivan’s ear, before Ivan shrugged him off.

“Say that again.”

Something shifted in Ivan’s tone _._ It made the air heavier, like a weighted blanket settling over them both. A tiny spark of alarm flared in Alfred’s chest— _Don’t tease the mob boss, stupid—_ but he was all too skilled at ignoring such warnings. He tried to swing his hips backwards, but Ivan held him steady. His laughter lilted into an airy breath.

“Oh, that’s right. My bad.” Alfred cleared his throat and amended his earlier statement, “I said no, _sir._ ”

“No?” Ivan repeated, puzzled. His fingers traveled up, pressing firm lines into Alfred’s ribs, one by one. “I have heard this word before. It is normally when I ask, ‘Are we going to have a problem?’ and they say, ‘No, boss.’”

“Yeah? Well, now I’m the one saying _no,_ boss.’” Alfred straightened a little, stifled a gasp when Ivan bussed his nose up against the back of his neck. Gentle breaths pulsed against his flesh. “I’m not putting out on the second date. How desperate do I look?”

Ivan ground forward, suddenly. A sharp inhale caught in Alfred’s throat. He just managed to catch himself against the pool table, dropping his cue in the process. It rolled away from him, along with his final ounce of self-control. He scrambled to reclaim the latter. He’d fought too well tonight, armed with feather-light touches and breathy flirtations, to set off the very trap he’d lain. For once, he didn’t want to be caught in the jaws of this beast. Just this one time, Alfred wanted to catch the bear.

The bear had other plans.

“What if I tell _you_ no?” Ivan’s voice sounded rough, like the motions of his hips, rolling steadily into Alfred’s backside. Alfred’s left arm buckled. His elbows smacked against the table.

“Whoa—”

Alfred’s right arm twisted up behind him, before he could rebalance. He felt a tug of pain in his shoulder, struggled not to groan. Then Ivan was bending him over, down, until his cheek grazed the green felt lining. His breaths came quick. His heart beat quicker.

“What if I say I want you right now, and I don’t care what you think?”

Alfred’s thoughts tangled up in a knotty haze. Was Ivan _serious?_ His grip on Alfred’s wrist was punishing. It would leave bruises— _If he was lucky,_ Alfred thought, and immediately shoved the fantasy away. Ivan was all around him, enveloping him, pressed against his back, his hips, his _ass_. And Alfred could tell, even through their clothes, that Ivan was more than _half_ hard.

“Would you fight me, I wonder?”

Alfred made a stuck sound between clenched teeth. He wrenched his shoulders a bit, trying to escape, but Ivan didn’t budge. And it was _frustrating_ , because Alfred knew his own strength, he knew he could give Ivan a hard time in a clean fight. His blood pumped hotter as he tried to free himself. This was a game. A _game._ Ivan was testing him, or maybe he wasn’t, maybe he was just feeling drunk and feisty, but so was Alfred, and he just needed to get control of his _arm, dammit._ Before he could, Ivan’s fingers tangled up tight in his hair, and pulled.

“Would you cry?” Ivan bore his weight down over Alfred. His words trickled straight into Alfred’s ear, mocking. “‘Oh, please, sir, please don’t…’”

 _Fuck you,_ Alfred thought, but he couldn’t resist a smile. Saliva trickled from the corner of his mouth onto the felt lining below. He wiggled his hips a bit, and Ivan shoved him forward, until Alfred was arching off the balls of his feet and struggling to touch the floor. Alcohol and arousal turned his surroundings fluid. And Ivan still hadn’t stopped moving against him.

“A lot of men have pleaded with me, Ratboy. You can ask them how kindly I take to begging. The ones that can still speak, anyway.” Ivan nipped at Alfred’s ear. That tiny pinch of pain was the only thing reminding him that he wasn’t dreaming. Ivan was here, and solid, and _real,_ and Alfred’s blood had all rushed south of his brain. “Well? Talk your way out of this. Go on. It is your talent, isn’t it? Getting yourself into dangerous situations, before fumbling your way back out?”

“Let me take this shot,” Alfred managed. He tried to wedge an arm up under himself, but Ivan crushed in too close to him. It was difficult even to speak. “If I win, I walk. If I lose, we’ll play _your_ game. How ‘bout that, sir?”

Ivan seemed to consider that. If Alfred focused, he could feel the steady drum of Ivan’s heart against his back. At last, he eased up off of Alfred, until his presence disappeared entirely. Alfred waited an interval of seconds. Was it a trick? Was Ivan still standing there, watching to see what he’d do next? Either way, he got his arms up under him and took a deep breath. Then, his pool cue appeared in front of him, so he accepted it from Ivan with an easy smile.

“Thank you kindly, sir.” Alfred climbed back onto his feet. His shoulder and back throbbed with a hollow ache. He squeezed his fingers open and shut, working some feeling back into his arms, but that was hard, considering how much the booze numbed him.

Alfred caught his breath as he surveyed the table. He glanced up when he felt Ivan’s eyes on him. Smiled. Ivan averted his gaze, back to the table. Satisfied, Alfred followed his lead. So there, that was Alfred’s proof that Ivan couldn’t faze him. It didn’t matter how gruff his voice was, or how firm his grip. Alfred would not give into him, as he had so many times before.

He was grateful for the coat covering his lap, though.

“Alrighty… So, that pocket? I called that pocket right there?” Alfred’s fingertips trembled over his pool stick. He could talk confidently and flash disarming smiles all he wanted, but he couldn’t trick his own body. It knew what he wanted. Especially when the thought of intentionally botching his shot came to mind. It would look innocent enough: Alfred miscalculated, knocked the eight ball off the railing, maybe knocked the cue ball into the pocket instead. Then, Ivan could have him. _Take_ him. Whatever the man had planned, Alfred would have no choice but to go along with it, because those were the _rules._ Couldn’t be helped, really.

Pride won out over Alfred’s lust. He leaned against the table, cut a final glance at Ivan, then his attention narrowed to the path between his cue and his winning shot. He slid the stick back, then forward, then back again. It glided between his fingers, just as solid and real as Ivan, as real as victory. He needed to win. He needed to beat the Old Bear. He needed to draw his arm back and listen to the thunderous _clack_ of his cue striking the eight and…

“Holy _fuck._ ”

Alfred lost his breath. He watched the balls tumble together, black and white, like a whirling caricature of yin and yang. The eight smacked against the railing, bounced off, and wobbled around Alfred’s claimed pocket. Alfred looked up at Ivan, then. Ivan, who didn’t tear his eyes away from their game. Ivan, who stood awkwardly, not because of his injured leg, but because of another discomfort caged behind his zipper. Ivan, whose tiniest shift in micro expressions let Alfred know—He’d won.

“How’s that for a _mostly_ fair game, sir?” Alfred turned around to lean against the pool table, crossing one ankle over the other. He clapped slowly, grinning at Ivan as victory and that last cocktail rushed his system.

Unsurprisingly, Ivan did not answer. He simply looked back to the table, with all the calculative grace of a sober man; although, if Alfred looked close, he could tell those violet eyes were not entirely focused.

“Guess it’s time to get going, s—Wait, I actually don’t need to call you that anymore, since the game is over now, huh?”

Alfred couldn’t resist the sloppy bounce in his step. He shed Ivan’s coat and laid it over the wooden railing. If he’d lost the match, it could have been _him_ bent over that very spot. He found himself wondering if he’d won after all, because _god_ his pants felt tight, and he really had loved how _warm_ Ivan felt, pressed in around him from every side. But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t get a bit of a high, leaving Ivan wanting. He strode toward the exit, as confidently as his impaired motor skills would allow.

“You still owe me a dare.”

Alfred paused with his hand on the knob. His skin buzzed, just beneath the surface. What did Ivan want from him? He turned around, never moving his palm from the handle, not minding where it dug into the small of his back. He looked Ivan over, his strong form blurring before him like a mirage. For a moment, Alfred wondered if he’d knocked his glasses off somehow. Then he remembered, no, it was just the same nectar that stole away his inhibitions and made him confident in his next decision.

Alfred approached Ivan with an easy step. The other man didn’t move, except to tilt his chin down at Alfred. He stood with his arms at his sides, his feet shoulder-width apart. At any moment, Ivan looked ready for an attack. What Ivan was _not_ prepared for was Alfred’s hand, the way it moved to caress his cheek, tracing the subtle imprint of his single dimple. Ivan’s chest rose visibly on an inhale, but stilled, after that. He observed as Alfred stroked stray strands of hair behind his ear, traced the very corner of his mouth. Alfred focused only on his fingers, where they traveled over cool, snow-white skin. He could see Ivan’s gaze in the corner of his eye, watching, wary. Then, Alfred closed his eyes, and he could see nothing at all as he blindly mapped the harsh contour of Ivan’s jaw, the hard plane of his cheek.

Their lips met. Alfred allowed his to part, lightly tracing the rough splits and cracks of Ivan’s own. Sluggishly, he dragged their bottom lips together, smiling faintly to himself. He tasted Ivan: The dizzying burn of vodka and, beneath that, something naturally and undeniably _him._ Alfred kissed him once, full on the mouth. Then, he withdrew.

“I did not ask for that,” Ivan said, after a minute. His expression hadn’t changed. Alfred wondered if he’d even closed his eyes. Then, he decided it didn’t matter. His lips still tingled.

“Isn’t it what you wanted?” Alfred’s face burned, even as he smiled. He was too sure to doubt himself. His fingers tangled into Ivan’s rolled up sleeve. “I’m using my final truth to ask you that, by the way.”

Ivan’s eyes flicked between either of Alfred’s own. Stiffly, he raised one hand to clamp around the back of Alfred’s neck. Alfred’s breath left him. Their gazes locked together, purple on blue. Then, Ivan was pulling him in, and their breaths mingled into one, and they were slipping, dissolving into one another. Ivan’s tongue painted broad strokes over Alfred’s and Alfred failed each time he tried to catch him between his teeth. His head spun, his surroundings dripping away like watercolor on a wet canvas.

“You should get home.” Ivan’s voice came thick and hot in his ear. Alfred melted against his chest, ignoring it when their knees bumped clumsily together.

“ _You_ should get home,” Alfred shot back, because _damn Ivan_ if he thought he’d gotten the upper hand in this whole breathless charade. He curled his fingers into Ivan’s collar, revealing a thin coil of scar tissue. “Maybe after you drive me back to mine?”

Ivan’s eyes shimmered, like aurora borealis in the north. “I’m flattered…” he said, ducking in to nip at Alfred’s earlobe. His voice shivered down Alfred’s spine. “But I have to say…no. Not tonight.”

Alfred’s jaw fell open. He laughed, frustrated by the smug smile on Ivan’s face. Every step he took toward Ivan, the farther away he got. “Hey, now, wait a minute—”

“Goodnight, Alfred.” And like that, Ivan was gone, taking with him any semblance of triumph Alfred might have felt. The lights in the room spun on.

“Son of a bitch.”

Alfred began to gather dirty glasses and empty bottles of booze. He hung the pool cues up where they belonged and hung Ivan’s coat around his shoulders where it _felt_ like it belonged. He’d return it next time Ivan came to see him, he resolved, hoping it’d be soon. Then, when no evidence remained of their rushed romance, except for a faint, fantastical aura, Alfred cut the lights and locked up.

His ankle ached where the bear trap tightened.


	13. Trigger

There was nothing less glamorous about joining the mob, Alfred decided, than handling your boss’s finances. Word must have gotten around that Alfred was good at math— _Thanks a lot, Feliks—_ because now he sat in the backroom of the restaurant, scribbling down equations and cursing over complicated calculations. Money laundering sounded a lot more exciting than it felt.

Alfred did discover one interesting thing, though: Ivan had an Etsy shop. Oh, yes. It was a cute little setup, filled with knitted blankets and embroidered pillows and miniature animals carved from wood. All things that a big, scary mob boss like Ivan Braginsky would totally never _actually_ make. And Alfred even figured out how it worked. A few fake listings that looked innocent enough, and colluders could funnel dirty money into the Old Bear’s accounts from around the globe. That, on top of the restaurants, nightclub chains, and other shady transactions Alfred was still trying to crack, and it appeared Ivan had created quite a comfy network for himself. It was almost an honor, being trusted with such grunt work.

Except he wasn’t trusted, really. Toris kept popping into the room, “just looking for something” or “wondering if there’s anything I can get you? No? Alright.” And Raivis never left. He sat in the corner, apparently fixated on an old Gameboy system. Only, Alfred felt eyes on him whenever Raivis thought he wasn’t paying attention.

The next time Toris entered, Alfred acknowledged him with a thin smile. He must have taken the hint, because he didn’t create some muddled excuse for his presence. He simply ducked over to where Raivis sat and the two struck up a hushed conversation. Their voices rustled beneath a stream of classical music. Tchaikovsky, Alfred was pretty sure.

“…behaving.”

“…Bear…entrusting…work.”

Alfred strained to catch any stray words. They were talking about him, he could tell. But they seemed to be approving, so Alfred lost interest after a few garbled whispers. He turned his attention back to his notes. Only a few scattered ribbons of conversation touched his ears while he worked.

“…time this week…”

“…should we do?”

“…don’t know…”

Alfred’s eyes flicked between two websites pulled up on his laptop, his notebook, and a spread of bank statements and tax information. He bounced his eraser against the back of his hand, grounding himself with each rhythmic thud _._ It took a minute for him to realize, that absent _tap tap tapping_ was the only sound in the room. Toris and Raivis had hit a hitch in conversation. Confused, Alfred paused. Listened. Then, tentatively, Raivis spoke, and Alfred caught the full sentence.

“He’s still just standing out there.”

Alfred’s eyes snapped to the heavy, metal door separating the backroom from the outside alleyway. A sense of territorialism swept through him. Someone was standing out _there?_ Who? For how long? And why did Toris and Raivis both seem so shaken up about it?

“What are you guys whispering about?” Alfred stood, laying his pencil flat against the table. Two pairs of eyes—one blue, one green, both wide—met his. Alfred smiled to ease them. “Hey, what’s all the worry for? We’re all in this together, right? I just wanna be in the loop, see if there’s any way I can help out.” He nodded at the door. “Someone loitering?”

Raivis opened his mouth, but Toris set a hand on his shoulder and spoke first. “It’s nothing, Alfred. Really. He hasn’t done anything to make us believe he means any harm. Truth be told, I…I think he’s just waiting to meet with the boss, so…”

“Boss isn’t in.” Alfred shrugged away from his seat and headed for the exit. “And since neither of you are taking care of this, I’ll handle it—”

“ _No._ ” Toris’ ears reddened at his outburst. “No, it’s just… There’s no need. I don’t think it would help matters, is what I’m saying.” Alfred didn’t miss the way Toris’ fingers fluttered over the pale burn mark on his throat.

_So that’s who’s out there._

“Look.” Alfred leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. “If someone is standing right outside our backdoor, on privately owned property, it’s obvious they’re trying to intimidate us. And it’s working, clearly, considering neither of you want to go out and say something about it. And that shit’s not gonna fly here. It _definitely_ wouldn’t fly if Ivan were here. I mean, there’s a reason the—What was it you told me, Toris? ‘While the cat’s away, the mice will play?’”

Alfred stuck a hand in either pocket, looking back and forth between his colleagues. _Colleagues, yes, that was the word._ His smile slipped wider. “All I’m saying is, you guys _can’t_ keep letting the mice think there’s only one cat in town. Anyway, I got my claws out for this one, so.”

He turned to open the door. Toris’ voice stopped him, grave as ever. “Alfred. I don’ t think you understand the weight of a situation like this.”

“Oh, no?” Alfred patted his jacket pocket. “Does it weigh more than my Smith and Wesson?”

Toris paused. His lips thinned as he stood down. “Do what you will. Just be prepared to face the consequences.”

Alfred rolled his eyes. If he was the only one brave enough to stand up for the family, so be it _._ It was like Ivan had told him once: _If someone is giving you a problem, you go over there and you tell him to stop_. There was a reason the Vargas brothers didn’t respect anyone but Ivan. Maybe it was stupid to go against them, the way things stood now. But soon, they’d realize how stupid it was for them to disrespect the motherfucking Bratva.

“Captain Backbone, heading out.” With that, Alfred shouldered past the doorway and into the late morning air. The sky was painted a light blue-grey and telephone wires rattled in the breeze. And there, dressed in a paisley vest with shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, stood Lovino Vargas.

Lovino turned, just as the door clicked shut. His movements were stiff from the stitch in his side. His hand didn’t move from inside his vest, palm curled over his abdomen. _That’s where I shot him_ , Alfred knew.

“Huh.” Lovino’s lip curled as he looked Alfred over. It was funny, standing so close to him now, as Alfred registered something he hadn’t before: Lovino was nearly a head shorter than him. Strange how such a little man could command such big respect.

“Heya, Lovi.” Alfred bit off a smile, leaning innocently against the surrounding brick. His hand stayed in his pocket. “Sounds like you’ve been loitering around out here for a while. Need something?”

“Not from you.” Lovino raised his chin to look down at Alfred. Something about that gesture was reminiscent of Arthur, the way he could make you feel small even while standing below you. Alfred shook the thought away. “Where’s the Old Bear? Hiding in his cave again?”

“He’s got bigger business to attend to, actually.” Alfred’s grin locked in place as he shifted positions. “I can pass him a message?”

“Bigger business.” Lovino snorted, muttering something in his native tongue. He took a moment to collect himself then nodded once, firmly. “You’ll tell him something for me, then.”

Alfred shrugged. “Sure.”

Lovino winced as he stepped closer. Something in that expression made him less intimidating, more human. Alfred’s eyes brightened as he realized—Lovino wasn’t much bigger than him, really. He was a man flawed by vulnerability, and pride, and lofty goals he’d stop at nothing to achieve. And as it turned out, he bled just the same.

“You listen to me, fucker, and don’t misquote me.” All Lovino’s anger coalesced in his eyes, smolderingly black. “We’re cutting the bullshit. All this petty back-and-forth, ‘I got you, ha-ha.’ Shit ain’t conducive to a successful business, for _anyone._ You get what I’m saying?”

Alfred’s brow quirked, like he’d seen Ivan’s do so many times before. “You’re calling a truce?”

Lovino took a slow breath. The tendons in his neck tightened as he struggled not to react to the pain in his side. He moved in closer, until his breath rasped hot against Alfred’s cheek. “You shot our guy, I shot yours, and he shot me. Now? We let the beast die, eh? We’re even. It’s done.”

Lovino took a step backwards. His eyes stayed on Alfred’s, but Alfred wasn’t paying heed to the menace in that gaze. His thoughts were on those words—Wrong, so wrong—tickling his pride. _He shot me_ , Lovino had said. He thought Ivan had been the one to put a bullet in him in the dark dampness of that warehouse. _Ivan._ Alfred’s lips twitched, humorlessly.

“I have the rest of the Bear’s money,” Lovino said, turning his back entirely. “But that’s going into his hands. Not yours.”

Alfred just barely remembered to jar himself from his thoughts long enough to speak. “Yeah. Hey. That’s all great.”

“Hm.” Lovino kept walking, a silhouette in the mouth of the alley. He leaned into his injured side when he walked. Every time his wound stretched and pulsed with pain, Lovino thought of Ivan. Ivan, who hadn’t even been the one to pull the damn trigger.

“But, hey, before you go.” Alfred thumbed the side of his nose, grinning at Lovino’s crooked strut. “You, uh… You know Ivan isn’t the one who shot you. Right?”

Lovino paused. He straightened up, turned around in a single, stilted motion.

“It was me.” Alfred’s grin sharpened. Then, he saw Lovino’s hand twitch sideways, as though reaching for a weapon. Alfred drew his first, thrusting it out at arms-length. His voice lilted pleasantly when he said, “And I’d do it again.”

A crease appeared between Lovino’s brows. His eyes moved from Alfred’s face, to his gun, to his finger teasing the trigger guard. His lips thinned. Then, the uneven _clack_ of his footsteps as he walked forward. Alfred’s finger tensed. Lovino’s eyes didn’t leave his, even as he leaned down and pressed his forehead to the muzzle of the gun.

“Do it.” Lovino’s eyes flicked between Alfred’s own. They shone dark with defiance. “You got balls now, eh? I’m fucking proud of you, _bambino_. So, what’re you waiting for? What’s the holdup, huh? Blow my brains out. Paint the pavement with it.”

Alfred’s jaw tightened. He studied Lovino’s face: The dark lashes framing coal black eyes. The thin scar running from his cheek to the corner of his jaw. The dare written deep in that unwavering gaze. _He really doesn’t think I’ll do it._ Alfred’s chest buzzed hot with pride. He flicked off the gun’s safety.

“Do it. Do it.” Lovino’s words came soft, hurried. His lips scarcely moved with the invitation. Alfred’s focus drifted to the scar on his cheek. He wondered where he’d gotten it. When.

“Go on, Ratboy. Come on, you degenerate piece of shit. Pop your cherry already. Kill me. But hey _._ When you do? You _look me in the eyes,_ you spineless bastard.”

Alfred forced his eyes back up. He felt more resistance beneath his finger as he squeezed the guard. A vicious drumbeat started up in his ears. _Kill him_. He could kill Lovino Vargas, take out the boss of an opposing syndicate, all in a matter of _seconds_.

Minutes passed, and Alfred did not shoot. Lovino’s eyes flicked between Alfred’s, back down to his gun.

“You’re getting a little trigger happy lately, _culo_.” Lovino took a step back. Alfred’s hand was beginning to ache where it tensed around his gun. Lovino nodded to it. “I’d watch that finger of yours.”

Lovino turned around. As though Alfred weren’t still aiming a lethal weapon right at his back. As though he couldn’t still take him out with a single pinch. Then, Lovino rounded the corner and he was gone.

Nausea washed through Alfred’s veins. He swallowed a bitter taste and watched the empty alleyway until his vision blurred. _Shit._ He would have done it, if he’d been provoked just one more time. He _would have._ His arm dipped to his side, numb. Had he overreacted? Had _he_ been the one out of line this time around?

Weakly, Alfred shoved back inside the restaurant. Toris and Raivis both startled to attention. Alfred ignored them as he tossed his gun on the table and returned to his notes. His hands worked automatically, punching in equations and scrawling out numbers. No time to think too hard. Just work, work, work. Yet, still, something about the interaction didn’t sit well with him. Why the sudden peace offering? And where did Lovino finally get all the money he owed Ivan after, what, _years_ of evading the debt? It didn’t add up. Right? Something wasn’t…

Alfred’s eyes narrowed on his calculator. He looked between the screen and his notepad. Sat up a little taller. “What the…?”

“Is everything alright, Alfred?” Toris lingered near the head of the table. “How did your conversation with Lovino—”

“Hold up, dude.” Alfred lurched forward in his seat. He pulled his notes up close to his nose, scrutinizing every number. He counted them off in rushed whispers. And, no, no matter how he looked at it… “These numbers are wrong.”

Toris frowned. “Sorry?”

“Our projected income versus how much we’ve actually been bringing in. It doesn’t match up. Like, at all.” Alfred ruffled through a few sheets of paper, shaking his head. “Dude, this is—How did you guys miss this?”

“Well, sometimes there are errors in calculation.” Toris offered a pale, polite smile. “And, of course, our actual income varies by month. Sometimes what we predict isn’t precisely—”

“No. No.” Alfred stood, his brain fumbling around a million half-formed thoughts. “Toris, listen to me, this isn’t a matter of a few bucks we’re missing. Okay? This is, god, I mean—”

“Well, how much is it?” Raivis piped up, apprehensive. Alfred’s eyes flicked upwards, locked on Toris.

“ _How_ much did Lovino’s guys owe us?” Alfred asked, voice low.

“I-I wouldn’t be able to tell you off the top of my head.” Toris hesitated. “Upwards of half…half a million, I’d say. Yes. About that.”

Alfred barked a laugh. It cut off abruptly when he said, “We’re missing six hundred and thirty-eight _thousand_ dollars in revenue.”

“ _What?_ ” Raivis staggered out of his chair, all but dropping his gaming system. “Toris, that can’t be right. We can’t be missing that much money. When the boss finds out—”

“There must be a mistake.” Toris’ voice strained. He leaned across the table, scrambling for some evidence to prove his case. “A hit that hard would be impossible to cover. Someone would have noticed. Myself, or Eduard…”

Alfred joined Toris in rummaging through bank statements and old checks. “No, dude, listen. This isn’t the work of a couple _weeks_ , okay? This operation—Whatever it is—must’ve been running for months. _Years_ , even. I don’t know what they’re doing, exactly, but the Vargas bros have been syphoning money out of you guys for a _long_ ass time.” He looked up, face hot, smile tremulous with excitement. “It’s a good thing you guys had me on this case, huh?”

Toris blanched. His eyes slid to Raivis, who shook around the edges. There was the fragile sound of Toris clearing his throat. Then, “I will call him.”

“Who?” Alfred frowned. “Ivan? Oh, dude, don’t worry about it. I’ll ring this one in.”

“That’s very kind of you, Alfred, but the boss doesn’t like to be disturbed on his personal cell by just anyone. Whenever there’s a hitch, it’s my responsibility to contact him.”

“Well, you’re obviously freaked out by the idea of it. Why not just give me his number, or give me your phone, and I’ll pass the word?” Alfred smiled, reassuring. “Don’t worry, I’m not out here trying to throw anyone under the bus. Besides, I think I can explain this in a way that won’t piss him off as much.”

“You are very confident.” Toris’ words rang hollow. After a slight hesitation, he pulled out his cellphone. “I will make the call, so he’s not caught off guard answering to a voice that isn’t mine. But I’ll tell him you want to speak with him. If he’ll have you.”

“He’ll have me.” Alfred beamed. He knew it was true because, if Ivan had things his way, he wouldn’t just _have_ Alfred—He’d _take_ him.

An hour and a very one-sided phone conversation later, Ivan stepped through the back entrance. His hair was disheveled, like he’d been wrenched from the midst of a fight. Or a nap. The laces of one boot dragged across the tile flooring. Given how violently Raivis shook, and how pale Toris’ face had gone, Alfred half-expected Ivan to storm in and start yelling. Instead, Ivan stopped in the middle of the room, looked everyone over, and sighed as he sank into a nearby armchair. His face tilted into one gloved palm.

“Tell me what happened.”

Alfred looked to Toris. He still felt proud for having discovered the plot, and he wanted desperately to share his accomplishment, but Toris seemed to have a firm idea how manners with Ivan should be discussed. He would wait.

“Lovino stopped by today,” Toris began slowly. Green eyes flitted nervously between the room’s other inhabitants before he stepped forward, fretting with the hem of his shirt. “He came with a truce. Alfred decided to go out and hear his terms.”

There was a pause, until Alfred realized it was his turn to elaborate. He perked up. “Right, well, so Lovino showed up and was kind of just loitering around out back. He was out there for like an hour or something before I decided to go check him out—”

“Outside my restaurant?” Ivan asked, frowning. Alfred nodded, and Ivan sighed again. “Go on.”

“Anyway, he said he had a truce for us, like Toris said, right? Told me he has your money and he’ll put it into your hands only, yada yada…” Alfred paused. He wondered if he should mention the conversation about Lovino’s wound. How Lovino thought it was Ivan who’d shot him, and how Alfred corrected him. So many times, Alfred had lied by omission. It was getting harder to do, especially with Ivan studying him the way he was. He took a breath.

“I drew a gun on him. He _totally asked for it_ ,” Alfred said quickly, when Toris stiffened. “But I just wanted to be transparent here. You asked what happened, and I’ll own up to that.”

Ivan made a small noise in his chest. “Did he provoke you?”

Alfred couldn’t suppress a bitter laugh. His eyes locked on Ivan’s, grave. “Ivan, this dude’s been provoking me for months now. A few weeks ago, I proved I wasn’t afraid to shoot when I need to, and today, he questioned my competence _still._ I can’t always wait for direct orders when it comes to defending my honor.”

Ivan returned Alfred’s gaze with as much ice as Alfred had fire. His expression, as so often was the case, remained unreadable. Then, just as Toris opened his mouth to break that taut thread of silence, Ivan raised a hand.

“My name did not leave your mouth?”

“Only when I said you weren’t responsible for his injury,” Alfred said firmly. “This whole thing was between me and him.”

Ivan nodded. “You were within your right. Now, you spoke earlier about finances?”

Alfred felt a flurry of satisfaction, _pride_ , even as Ivan turned his attention on Toris. The smaller man did not fidget under Ivan’s scrutiny, but he looked like he wanted to. Instead, he forced a small, solemn smile.

“Unfortunately, boss, we appear to have been the targets of a fairly large operation by the Italians. Upon returning from his conversation with Lovino, Alfred discovered some financial records that were…concerning, to say the least—”

Ivan interrupted him, pointing. “In the documents there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bring them to me.”

After a moment, Toris shuffled over and began searching for the proper paperwork. Alfred moved to help, and their hands bumped together a few times before Alfred handed him a few sheets of paper, smiling, and Toris accepted them with a ghost of that expression. He brought them to Ivan with shaky hands.

Ivan sat forward to examine the numbers. Just as Toris started to withdraw, Ivan caught his forearm. Toris’ body went rigid, from his heels to the back of his neck. He stood still as Ivan’s eyes slid across the paper. Alfred’s heart skipped a beat as he looked on. Toris’ face was carefully trained to neutrality, but Alfred could almost see the bones in his wrist grinding together. It made his arm ache.

“How long has this been happening?” Ivan asked, after a long stretch of minutes.

“We don’t know, sir.” Toris’ voice sounded pinched. His only indication of pain. “By Alfred’s estimates it must have been a few months… Years, more, um, more likely.”

“This is a problem.” Ivan’s voice sounded calm, but Toris’ arm began to buckle beneath his grip. Alfred looked over his shoulder and found Raivis pressed against the wall, eyes averted. The air felt thick and cool. “How are we going to fix it?”

“Actually, boss, I’ve got an idea.” Alfred staggered forward a few steps. He watched where Ivan’s fingers dug five red welts into Toris’ skin. The muscles around Toris’ mouth went a little tight, but he didn’t wince, and he certainly didn’t make a sound. Silently, Alfred urged Ivan to look up, to return his attention. Just when it seemed Toris’ bone might crack under the pressure, Ivan eased up.

“What is your idea, Ratboy?”

_Another small victory._ Ivan was listening. That was good. “Well, he’s giving you the money back anyway, right? I say we let him do it.” Alfred waited, allowing his suggestion to settle before continuing. “And then we hit him back, right in the same place. Whatever he took from us, we double that.” Excitement thrummed through him as he stepped around the table. “I say we do what those guys did over the course of a few years, except we do it in one _day_.” His hands flew out at his sides, animated, his words coming quicker. “So? We all down for this or what?”

“You are proposing,” Ivan began, “that we take more than half a million dollars from these men in a matter of…what? A few hours?”

“Well,” Alfred hooked his hands in his pockets. “How much does that restaurant bring in?”

Ivan regarded Alfred carefully. His head tilted, his arms crossed over a grey sweatshirt. His first two fingers twitched and Toris took that as permission to move away from him. The room stood still, silent, awaiting command.

“Alfred.”

A chill, at the way Ivan rolled his R. Alfred didn’t think that’d ever go away. “Yeah, boss?”

“Take the rest of the day off.” He turned to Toris and Raivis, who stood together against the far wall. “Raivis. Bring Eduard in here. We are going to discuss this situation in a bit more detail.”

“You’re sure you don’t want me to stay and spitball some ideas with you?” Alfred noticed the way Raivis fumbled with the doorknob on his way out. “I really don’t mind hanging out for a while.”

When Ivan looked back at him, it was with the smallest of smiles. His voice came soft. “You have contributed enough for now. Thank you.”

Alfred stood just a few steps away from Ivan. Still, he felt every inch of distance between them. Some icy veil had settled over Ivan’s features, freezing Alfred outside, and he realized it didn’t matter how close they’d been getting outside of work—At the end of the day, Ivan was still the boss, and there were some spaces their budding friendship could not touch.

“Right. Sure thing. Keep me posted.”

Alfred passed Raivis and Eduard on his way out. Neither of them made eye contact. Normally, Alfred might feel bad for Ivan’s subordinates—He’d once gotten a taste of the Old Bear’s wrath, after all. Now, though, he couldn’t quash the tickle of satisfaction in his chest. He’d done something right, and they’d done something wrong, and if he had to get scolded for messing up, goddammit, so did _they._ They should have caught the scheme sooner. Alfred would have, he thought, if he’d been around.

Alfred spent his afternoon roaming the local parks. New York parks weren’t the same as the parks in Alabama. Here, every clock, bench, and fountain boasted the name of some stranger long dead and long forgotten. The lowest tree limbs were severed to prevent the homeless population from stealing a place to sleep among the leaves. Children ran, but not freely; their parents were never far behind, nor were the men with binoculars pretending to watch the birds.

He _didn’t_ miss Alabama. Sure, he missed hearing his name when he bought snacks at the corner store and playing baseball with his brother until the streetlights came on and just having someone to talk to in general. But life in the city was fast. Alfred _liked_ fast. Fast felt like wind in your hair and a gun in your hand and accented praise singing through your veins. But sometimes, when the city skies grew dim with dusk, fast felt a little bit like loneliness.

At last, Alfred perched on the edge of a tall stone fountain and pulled out his phone. He was good with numbers, that was why he’d been entrusted with Ivan’s finances in the first place. So, Ivan’s phone number had been just another one to memorize. He dialed it in the same order Toris had. Then, dropping a coin in the glassy pool below, he wished for Ivan to pick up—Or at least that he rolled his Rs in his voicemail recording, too.


	14. Fool

A month of late-night calls and risky texts culminated in a mission for Alfred. This task was not like the others before it. There were no boring papers to file or faux packages to deliver, thank _god._ No. Today, Alfred had conducted his first arms deal, and it felt _good._

This was a matter of confidence. Trust. Ivan had trusted him to meet one of Yao Wang’s associates. He trusted him to secure an eighty-pound duffle bag full of certain…artillery. Finally, Ivan trusted him to use his rental car to transport those goods to a safe place. And Alfred knew the trust was genuine because their agreed upon “safe place” was one of Ivan’s private residences.

The traffic thinned out some, in this part of the city. Yellow lights streaked across black cement. And there, rising like a glass palace on the navy horizon, stood the Old Bear’s cave; a penthouse that crowned the tall building as though it were royalty.

Alfred felt like a trespasser, pulling into the reserved parking space. Even so, he didn’t hesitate as he stepped out of the car, went around to the trunk, and slipped the duffle bag over his shoulder. It didn’t feel heavy at all compared to the weight in his chest. Here he was, about to become a part of Ivan’s home. There would be no brothers or ex boyfriends to disturb them. The night was theirs alone.

“Christ…”

Alfred tilted his head back into a late summer breeze. Loose strands of hair floated around his face, tracing his skin as though to beckon him onward. He could not resist the siren’s call of that high-rise balcony, or of the lights that glowed through shaded windows. Looking up was like catching a glimpse into heaven. He entered the building, mentioned the Old Bear’s name, and a glass elevator carried him to the top floor.

Alfred had never set foot a place like this. Excitement thrummed through his bones, made his fingertips tremble. This, right here, was the life he wanted. Well, almost. In Alfred’s ideal future, the penthouse would belong to _him_. Until then, he waited outside a bolted door and wondered if Ivan might answer it in a robe, the fabric parted just enough to reveal a broad chest and a dozen mysterious scars. He raised his fist and knocked to the beat of his heart. Minutes passed. At last, the door clicked open.

“Hey! Wasn’t too hard to find this place after all. My GPS died a while back, but I wrote down the directions so—” Alfred fell silent as the backlit silhouette swam into focus.

It was not Ivan who had opened the door, but a young woman who could have been his twin. She had the same ashy hair, though hers hung to her waist and framed her face with blunted bangs. Her skin was like porcelain, her high cheekbones dusted with rouge. The dark makeup around her eyes was jarring, a dramatic contrast from the rest of her fair features. But, between those wispy lashes, Alfred caught eyes the color of amethysts. There was no mistaking it, then. This girl was…

“Ivan’s sister?” Alfred let confusion bleed into his words. His grip on the duffle bag slackened as he looked down at the girl. She stood about a foot shorter than him, all done up in ruffles and lace. She could have been a doll; although, Alfred never knew of any doll who could manage such a powerful look of disdain.

“No. I am his wife.” The girl looked Alfred over, critical. The harsh cut of her words was sharpened by her accent. She propped her hand on a corseted waist and leaned against the doorframe. “What do you want with him?”

“I… Uh…” Alfred shrugged the bag onto his other shoulder. “Sorry, what?”

“Natalya, do not frighten your brother’s company. You know how hard it is for him to make friends.” A new face appeared in the doorway, this one rounder, softer. This woman had the same violet eyes, but hers appeared cheerful. She smiled up at Alfred. “You must be new addition to the family. You can call me Katyusha. Please, come in!”

Alfred crooked a smile in return. He might have tried stepping into the house if the younger girl weren’t stationed before him like a guard dog. Alfred knew the small ones bit hardest.

“Thanks. I… Maybe I should wait for my boss?” Alfred craned his neck to see past the entrance. A creeping sense of _déjà vu_ swept in; this wouldn’t be the first time he’d delivered to the wrong place. “Is he…in right now?”

“He doesn’t want to see you,” the girl called Natalya said. “Give me your bag. I will deliver it to him.”

“Oh, Natasha.” Katyusha laughed, and that made Alfred feel a bit more at ease. He thought, maybe, this was just a strange but endearing quirk of hers, and not something to worry over. “Be kind to our guest. You will come inside, won’t you? Ivan will be waiting for you.”

“Sure.” He’d come this far, after all. Besides he wanted—Needed—to see the place where Ivan Braginsky laid his head at night.

Alfred didn’t think it possible, but the penthouse interior was even more impressive than the outside. Katyusha led him, and Natalya stalked after, into a living area five times the size of his own apartment. Crystalline windows stretched from floor to ceiling, shrouded by curtains the color of cream. Alfred’s reflection in the flooring, and a disgusted look from Natalya, reminded him to take off his shoes. He left them behind somewhere and kept moving forward, deeper into his trance. The last thing Alfred expected Ivan’s home to be, was comfortable.

How perfectly predictable it was for the Old Bear to surprise him, even in this.

Katyusha guided him to a large, L-shaped couch overflowing with pillows. It was so deep, Alfred had to sit on the edge just to keep himself upright. Potted sunflowers decorated the coffee table, and paintings of wildflowers and frozen lakes clung to every wall. A towering, stone fireplace crackled lazily beneath a wall-mounted TV. Alfred had to do a doubletake, but he was pretty sure that mantel held just about _every_ gaming system he could name. For some reason, the idea of Ivan playing videogames was almost impossible to conjure—But the image was heartwarming, when it came.

“Let me pour you some tea. Wait one little minute.”

“Oh, thanks!” Alfred blinked out of his daze long enough smile at the sisters. Katyusha smiled back before disappearing somewhere behind him. That left him alone with… “So… Natalya, right? I don’t know if you got my name at all, but I’m—”

“I don’t care.” Natalya settled on the floor across from Alfred. Her attention went to her nails, sharp as blades.

“Right.” Alfred’s outstretched hand faltered. He almost pulled it back into his lap, when a fluffy white cat scampered over to investigate. The creature purred as its head nudged into Alfred’s palm. “Awe, hey there! And who are _you?_ I’m Alfred. Yeah, that’s right…” He laughed when the cat flopped onto her back. “ _Christ_ , you’re adorable.”

“Careful. She bites.” Natalya’s voice seemed to alert the cat, because she twisted back onto her feet, ears flat.

“Awe, this little sweetheart doesn’t seem like she’d—” Alfred reached out again, but it was too late. The cat bolted, and then she was gone. “Well, okay then.”

“Oh, you met _Koshka_ , did you?”

Alfred felt a wave of relief when Katyusha returned. She carried a yellow teapot emblazoned with blue flowers, and her smile hadn’t left.

“She is not normally so skittish but, well, she and Natalya do not get along very well.” Natalya snorted before Katyusha went on. “I already added honey and sugar, but there is more on table if you need. You said your name is Alfred? Is very nice to meet you. I hope the drive here was not too bad?”

“Oh, nah. And thanks for the tea. Actually, the traffic isn’t terrible around here. Made it pretty easy to navigate, even without a map.” He accepted his cup with another nod of thanks. Steam tickled his cheek, and a clatter of pots from the kitchen tickled his ears. _Could that be…?_ “But that reminds me, you got a phone charger here? Apple?”

“Apple… Let me see.” Katyusha tapped her chin. “Natalya, you have one, yes?”

“No.”

 _Can’t say I wasn’t expecting that._ “Hey, well that’s okay, I can probably find my way back,” Or maybe Ivan would drive him again, “and, worst case scenario, I pick one up at a convenience store along the way.”

“Katya?”

Alfred perked at the familiar voice. He peered over his shoulder into a spacious dinette. The wooden flooring was varnished to a faint glow. Four antique chairs sat around a white-wood table that looked hand carved. In the edges of his vision, kitchen appliances shone sleek where they trailed into another room. All at once, a tall figure in a yellow sweater rounded the corner.

“Katyushechka, _kto zdec’?_ ” Ivan stopped suddenly. From mitted hands, a pan of white pastries piped fresh steam. With his eyes wide and his hair scattered, Ivan appeared much younger than he was. Then, his brow furrowed. Alfred recognized _that_ expression. “Why are you here.”

“You invited me?” Alfred gave a lopsided grin. He gestured to the cup in his hands. “I mean, I wouldn’t have the address otherwise. And Katyusha said I can stay for tea.”

“I called you.” Ivan’s expression hardened, then faltered as he glanced between his sisters. “Our meeting is cancelled. Go home.”

“Sorry, dude, I didn’t get the memo. Phone died.” Alfred sipped his tea. It tasted sweet, like berries. Then, he twisted to sling an arm over the back of the couch and his voice dropped. “Besides, no offense, but I wasn’t about to go home with a bag full of _guns_ in my _trunk._ ”

“ _This_ is who you chose to retrieve our arms?” Natalya’s words sounded as a hiss, though her expression did not change. “What did Yao have to say about this mutt showing up to beg on his doorstep?”

“Yao does not meet with anyone who isn’t us. You know this.” Ivan leveled a look on his sister. His voice was stern, but gentle when he addressed her. “He sent his subordinate, Li. And I sent mine.”

Natalya’s nose crinkled. “He is not even Russian.”

That seemed to be the end of that conversation. Ivan sighed, as though resigned, and moved to set his dessert atop the coffee table. He settled next to Alfred on the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. Alfred took the opportunity to examine his host. This was the most casual Alfred had seen Ivan since paintball. His sweater was embroidered across the chest with a little row of sunflowers. He wore blue jeans and knitted socks suited for winter instead of late June. Most noteworthy of all: Ivan wasn’t wearing anything to cover his throat. A necklace of glistening scar tissue decorated his skin like fresh gloss. The light shifted when he moved, turning the old wounds silver and rose-gold. They were unlike any adornments Alfred had seen before. Enchanting.

“You _are_ like a dog.” Natalya frowned with heart-shaped lips. “Drooling over a meal that does not belong to you.”

“ _A komu ya prinadlezhu?_ ” Ivan’s question came soft, but his gaze was serious. He tilted his head at his sister. Her reply was immediate.

“ _Sem'ye._ ”

“Okay, you two. No more speaking Russian while we have guest. Is rude.” Katyusha smiled apologetically. “Excuse us, Alfred. We do want to make you feel welcome.”

“He should know Russian,” Natalya said, “if he wants to work with us.”

“Y’know, I actually don’t think I minded it when I couldn’t tell what mean things you were saying about me,” Alfred joked. Natalya didn’t look like she appreciated his humor. Suddenly, Alfred got the urge to busy his mouth with something besides talking. “Hey, what’re these?”

“ _Pryaniki._ ” Ivan picked one up and examined it, as though for the first time. “They are tea cakes, made with flour and honey.”

“Oh, and they are _just_ like Mama used to make.” Katyusha accepted one for herself, beaming. “You did such wonderful job, Vanya. You need more people to bake for. Is a sin keeping these to yourself.”

Ivan clicked his tongue, murmuring something in Russian. He turned his face away from Alfred and, god, was he _embarrassed?_ Alfred hid his grin by biting into a pastry.

“This _is_ really good, actually.” Alfred laughed when Ivan shook his head at the cake still in his hand. He nudged him with a shoulder and laughed again as Ivan nearly dropped the thing. “Well? Quit looking at it and eat it! You might see what everyone’s complimenting you for.”

“He is just so shy about sharing his accomplishments,” Katyusha said, fondly. “It was hard enough convincing him to open his shop—”

“ _Sestrichka._ ” Ivan looked up, exasperated.

“I’m sorry!” Now, Katyusha was the one blushing. “He knows about it, does he not? You put him in charge of our finances, I have to think he is aware of such prominent source of income, no?”

“Wait, so, that whole Etsy thing is legit?” Alfred spoke around a mouth full of honeyed dough. He swallowed before going on. “The way it was presented to me, I assumed it was just another money laundering tactic. But you’re telling me he actually, like, carves wooden animals and knits socks for kittens and stuff?”

“Oh, he makes _so_ many unique things. You see that quilt on couch? Is one of his firsts. Just look at that stitching. Oh, a mess!” Katyusha’s laughter sounded like bells. Alfred decided he liked it. Not quite as much as he liked Ivan’s rare chuckles, but close. “He also carved that picture frame and embroidered that pillow and I cannot believe you have not told him your hobbies, Vanya. He is in your house. He is your friend. You should be opening up!”

“You both seem to forget,” Ivan’s eyes darkened. “Alfred is my employee. In a very _dangerous_ business.” He sat back with his cup of tea, stirring it too vigorously. “There are some things I prefer to keep separate from my work life.”

“I do not understand.” Katyusha frowned, her shoulders drooping out of their previous excitement. “If you do not want Alfredka to be part of your private affairs, why did you bring him to meet our family?”

“ _I didn’t know you were coming,_ ” Ivan ground out.

“Yeesh, you’d think with all these crazy missions he trusts me with, Vanya’d be willing to share a few more personal details.” Alfred gave an exaggerated sigh. He pursed his lips against a burst of laughter when Ivan whipped around to face him. “What? I’m just saying, I’ve been your mule all day… Actually, worse than a mule. People actually _feed_ their cattle. And anyway—”

“Ivan! You had this poor boy running errands all day without any food?” Katyusha stood in a flurry. “I will serve you some borscht. You had borscht before, yes? Ivan and I made some this evening. Has been chilling in the fridge. Of course, you will take sour cream and dill on top?”

“Oh, man, you don’t have to!” Alfred felt a surge of warmth. Here he was, having dinner with Ivan’s family. And sure, neither of them expected it. And sure, Natalya hadn’t stopped staring daggers at him since he walked in. But the atmosphere was pleasant. “But, yeah! That sounds great. I’ll take it with all the dressings. Thanks.”

“I will get it.” Natalya stood and stalked her way to the kitchen. She moved like a cat and, more and more, Alfred wondered if cats treated _rats_ the same as they treated mice.

Katyusha smiled. “Oh Natalya, I do not mind—”

“I will get it,” she repeated, and vanished into the kitchen.

Uncertain, Katyusha sat back down. There was a pause, and then she remembered the desserts on the table and continued eating. From his side, Ivan leaned over to Alfred.

“I would not eat what she brings, if I were you,” Ivan said.

“No kidding.”

A small _mew_ drew Alfred’s attention downward. His face lit up at his returned friend.

“Hey, you. _Hello_.” Alfred moved to pet the cat, but she ducked away into Ivan’s shins instead. Ivan’s brows shot upward as he bent to attend to the creature. “You’ve got a cute cat, dude. What’s her name again? Started with a K?”

Ivan shook his head, just slightly. It was as though he were thinking to himself, _this entire situation is absurd_ , and he would be right. Alfred felt like he’d stepped into a dream; although, that couldn’t be it, because there were too many people here, and Ivan’s clothes were still on. A different kind of fantasy, then.

“ _Koshka._ ” Ivan rubbed a thumb down the cat’s forehead.

“ _Koshka,_ ” Alfred tried. “That Russian? What’s it mean?”

“It means ‘cat.’” Katyusha clicked her tongue. “Try explaining that one to our guest, Vanya.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute, you named your cat, Cat?” Alfred snorted. All the while he was searching Ivan’s face, cataloguing his look of vulnerability that he clearly reserved for family. A rare honor, Alfred knew, that he could capture that expression. “God, I hope you never have a _child_.”

“I did not intend to keep her.” Ivan’s voice dropped, as though admitting something very private. His eyes stayed on his purring pet. “She would not stop returning to this building.” A pause. Alfred watched Ivan’s hand, huge compared to the tiny creature below, and he felt astonished by its tenderness. “I told her, _ukhodi, koshka._ Every day, I told her. _Ukhodi._ Leave. But she did not.”

Suddenly, Koshka’s eyes grew wide. With a low mewl, she scrambled beneath the couch. Ivan’s hand paused in the air where he’d been petting her. He looked knowingly toward the kitchen, where Natalya appeared.

“She doesn’t seem to have any trouble leaving when Nat’s around though, huh?” Alfred joked. Ivan raised a brow, but otherwise did not respond to his nudge.

Without a word, Natalya approached the coffee table. She held Alfred’s eyes as she set the bowl before him. Alfred’s expression froze, screwed up somewhere between humor and uncertainty. His breathing shallowed. It wasn’t until she _clicked_ his spoon on the table and turned away that he could fill his lungs again.

“Thanks,” he managed, and dipped his spoon into the bowl. Its contents were red, chunky, with a heap of sour cream on top. Otherwise it didn’t appear any different from the borscht at work. A little more love put in, maybe. Alfred hoped that was the _only_ added ingredient.

“Why aren’t you eating it,” Natalya cut in, her face deadpan.

“Huh—” Alfred closed his mouth, exchanged glances with Katyusha since Ivan wouldn’t look at anyone, _too busy pretending to search for the cat_ , and opened his mouth again. “You know, I’m just not really…”

“Let us play a game, hm?” Katyusha’s smile was like a rescue plane. She clasped her hands together. From her left hand, a small diamond ring glittered. “A Russian game! You are visiting a Russian home, yes? We must show you the things we do for fun.”

“That sounds super! Why don’t we?” Alfred stood in his enthusiasm, then faltered when he glanced back at Ivan. The Old Bear had been quiet throughout most of the ordeal, pensive perhaps. In a room filled with such big personalities, it was easy to overlook the biggest person there. “Uh… Is this…?”

Ivan looked up, as though just remembering Alfred was there. He gave a slow shrug. “My sisters want to know who is working for them.”

That sounded like permission. Alfred’s smile returned.

“Wonderful! Ivan and I will set up.”

“Awe, what, don’t you trust me?” Alfred teased. Katyusha seemed to take a moment to register why that was funny. When she understood, and laughed, Alfred sneaked a peek at Ivan. _So, you told her about our Poker game._ He couldn’t help but wonder what other stories his boss had told about him.

“You can set up next round,” Katyusha assured him, “after you learn to play!”

Alfred couldn’t argue. He felt a little bit dazed as he sat back, more comfortable on Ivan’s sofa than he had any right to be. This was…nice. Here he was, eating treats and playing games like he was part of a family again. It reminded him of the game nights he used to have back home. Mom and Dad would pull out Scrabble or Monopoly or Risk and everyone would sit around the dining table to participate. Once Arthur joined the family, he would bring his record player out into the living room for background noise. And everyone did a great job pretending Matthew wasn’t high. It was fun. Alfred felt loved. Right now, he felt almost exactly the same way. There was just one little detail throwing off his good time, and it was staring at him from beneath painted lashes.

“You.” Natalya’s eyes narrowed on Alfred, so there was no pretending she wasn’t talking to him. “I am going to show you something.” Her feet made no sound as she moved across the room. Alfred watched as she came to a stop outside a closed door and crossed her arms, impatient. “Rat. Come.”

“Man, you too, huh?”

Silent, she slipped into that backmost room. Alfred took a final look at Ivan and his sister, laying out cards and speaking to one another in hushed Russian. He recognized this scene: It was like something from a horror film, where the hero saw their normal life for the last time, before everything got uprooted by _the little Russian girl in the black dress._ Alfred sighed and followed her anyway.

As soon as Alfred stepped into the room, the door closed behind him. He resisted the urge to jump. Instead, he let out a breathy laugh and allowed a casual glance backwards.

“Have you ever considered auditioning for a horror flick? I think you’d rock it.”

“Do I scare you?” Natalya asked, with the faintest hint of satisfaction painting her lips.

“Yes,” Alfred answered honestly.

Natalya seemed pleased with that. She crossed the room and, once she was far enough away for Alfred to feel comfortable, he set to figuring out who this room belonged to. There was a queen-sized bed with white sheets, a quilt, and little else. A few wooden animals stood on a nearby dresser. At one point, the carpet gave way to tile flooring, which housed an oversized bathtub. Like the living room, this room held portraits, but it did not have any flowers. A guest room, Alfred figured, rarely inhabited.

When Natalya returned to him, it was with a hefty black suitcase. She dropped to her knees to unlock it, then she waited. After a beat, Alfred thought to sit beside her. Only then did the case swing open in its entirety.

“What do you know about knives, Rat?”

Alfred cleared his throat. “I’m more of a gun guy myself.”

“Hm.” Natalya’s fingers danced across her case. Twelve blades of varying lengths lay strapped inside. After a moment of consideration, she selected one, holding it up to examine the T-shaped hilt. “Are you familiar with the push knife?” She adjusted the weapon, so it stuck out between her knuckles. “Excellent stealth weapon. Good for stabbing from behind, if you don’t feel like fighting.”

“I…brought a pocketknife to my middle school once,” Alfred offered. “Yeah. Got my brother suspended for three days.”

“Fascinating,” Natalya said, making it clear she found the information anything but. She chose a new blade from her collection. It looked to be about a foot long. “SOG Seal Knife. You might recognize this one. It is used by your precious Navy. Powder-coated blade. Ergonomic handle. Useful if you need to break through glass.” Her eyes flicked to Alfred’s. “Or a body, of course.”

“Right. How did you _get_ that?” Alfred reached out, but Natalya whisked the blade away just as quickly. She replaced it with a new one.

“This is a classic Russian combat knife. Its prototype was used during the second World War. You like history? _Smersh_ is its name. It is an acronym for a Soviet counter-intelligence agency from the 40s. _Smert’ shpionam_.”

“Smert… Yeah, that. Great.” Alfred shrugged, but decided to humor her. He…couldn’t exactly tell where she was going with this, if he was honest. “What’s it mean?”

Natalya looked as impatient as she could without changing her expression. “I forgot. You are stupid and do not know the language of the organization you work for. _Smert’ shpionam_ means ‘death to spies.’ But, in my experience, it works just as well on people who are not spies.”

Alfred swallowed.

“Natasha! Fredka! Where you two are?” Katyusha’s voice rang in from the hall.

“Coming!” Alfred staggered upright, jamming a hand in the pocket of his jeans. “Sounds like the game’s ready. You playing?”

Natalya didn’t answer—She really _was_ Ivan’s sister—but she clicked her suitcase shut and slid it under the bed. Wordless, she bumped past Alfred on her way back out to the living room. Alfred let his sigh melt into a smile, and he followed her.

“Okay. Everyone ready?” Katyusha beamed as everyone settled into their seats. Six cards lay face down before every player. “Our game tonight is called _Durak._ ”

“Fool,” Ivan translated. Alfred snickered.

“Is a silly name, yes? But charming, I think.” Katyusha put a finger to her lips as she surveyed the table. “ _Nu… Ladno._ Like many Russian games, _Durak_ has no winner. There is only loser. We play in teams. Alfred, since you sit across from Natalya, you two will be team number one.”

“Sweet.” Alfred offered out a fist for Natalya to pound. “We’re gonna crush ‘em.”

Natalya’s nose crinkled. “I want to be on Vanya’s team.”

“Natasha, _bud' miloy_ ,” Ivan said without looking up from his cards.

With a roll of violet eyes, Natalya picked up her cards. Her face revealed nothing about her hand, not that it mattered—Alfred didn’t even know what a good hand _was_ in this game. He scooped up his own anyway.

“Good. Now, we turn over bottom card in deck… Ah! Trump suit is… Is _piki, da? Piki…_ Is like…” Katyusha muttered to herself, frowning. “What is…?”

“Spades,” Ivan said.

“Yes! Spades. Good.” Katyusha smiled broadly as she explained the rules. Alfred understood for the most part, but he pulled up a Wikipedia guide on his phone just in case. He didn’t know why, but the flashing green battery symbol felt like a timer to Alfred. He wondered if he’d be better off pulling the charger from the wall. If his phone was still dead late into the night, Ivan couldn’t make him leave. Could he?

“Understood, yes? Everyone understands the rules of the game?”

By ‘everyone,’ of course, Katyusha meant _him_. Alfred flashed a thumbs up. “I’m a quick learner. I got this.”

“It is true. He beat an entire table of experienced men during our Poker night, without ever having played.” Ivan’s smirk showed over the tops of his cards. Alfred bumped his arm.

“Oh, come on! That’s behind us, isn’t it, big guy?”

“I don’t know. It might be in your pocket.”

Alfred flushed as Ivan indicated the bump in his pocket where his wallet sat. It was true: The ace of hearts was still inside. A constant memento from that night and, Alfred thought, a good luck charm.

Or, at least, that was what he used to think—Before he lost his first three rounds of _Durak._

“Should we try new game?” Katyusha asked, halfway through a hopeless fourth match. Despite her polite question, victory shined brightly in her eyes. Ivan chuckled across the table from her.

“No way! Let’s at least finish this one. I finally got it now.” Alfred’s eyes flicked from the pile of cards between himself and Ivan and his own hand. Tentatively, he placed one down. “ _Ha._ ”

“You are giving up trump cards?” Ivan looked back to his hand. “This is not something to be _ha_ -ing over.” He added another card to the pile.

“Attack, attack!” Alfred drummed his hands on the table to get Natalya’s attention. “Dude, help me attack!”

“I’ll attack _you_ ,” Natalya seethed. She scowled at her cards before tossing them facedown on the table. Ivan chuckled as he moved the cards to the discard pile.

“ _No!_ Dammit, we almost had him!” Alfred jumped up—And knocked his neglected bowl of borscht across the coffee table. Katyusha gasped, Natalya grimaced, and Ivan slowly glanced at the red stain seeping across his rug. _White. Of course the rug is fucking white._ There was a moment of breathless silence. Then, “Hey, I just added some color to that boring old carpet of yours! You’re welcome, dude, it’s totally not a problem.”

“Boring?” Ivan blinked at the damage. Then, he turned a smile on Alfred. “Perhaps I should throw on even more red stains then. Care to donate?”

“No thanks, I think all of my red is pretty much used up where it needs to be. Maybe next time!”

“Is someone going to clean this up?” Alfred almost didn’t hear Natalya over the gales of his laughter. He looked to where she sat, pulling stockinged feet away from his mess.

“I’ve got it,” Alfred said jovially. A hand on his shoulder brought him back onto the couch.

“Please,” Ivan said, standing in his place. “Do not touch my carpet any more than you have already.”

If there was any question whether Ivan was upset with him, it should have been settled when he heard the soft rumble of Ivan’s chuckle. Still, when Ivan returned to him with two rags and a bottle of cleaning spray, Alfred found himself asking, “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

Ivan grunted when he kneeled to dab up the mess on the floor. Slowly, the corners of his eyes crinkled. He pulled his rag away from a dark stain that wasn’t lifting. “I suppose I also have a souvenir from one of our game nights now, hm?”

Alfred smiled. Ivan’s smile blossomed soon after that.

“Oh, Fredka…” Katyusha’s voice was tender. “Is so good to see him smiling again. I know he can be hard one to get along with, but he really does try to be good around you.”

“Katya,” Ivan sang lightly.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Katya plucked the rest of the cards from the table so Alfred could wipe it down. Her voice dropped confidentially. “He does not fall in love easily, Fredka, but when he does… My god.”

 _Love._ Alfred felt a lurch in his stomach. He swiped absently at the mess on the table. “Oh yeah?” he prodded, though it was hard with such little breath left.

“ _Konechno._ Of course. You see it in every carving he does, every quilt he makes.” Katyusha’s hands covered Alfred’s, her skin unexpectedly rough. It reminded Alfred of Ivan’s own hands. He struggled to remember the last time he held them. Then, his chest fluttered when he realized, Ivan might have similar thoughts. That’s what his sister was telling him, wasn’t it? _Did Ivan think about him, too?_ “He never stops talking about you, you know. He might act bothered, but I know my brother. He would not bring you to his home if he did not like you very much.”

“Katyusha.”

“He has been hurt before, Alfredka. So _badly._ ” The sudden change in Katyusha’s tone gave Alfred whiplash. Her hands tightened around his own, as though pleading. “I know, he looks so strong to you. So hardened. But it’s only because, if he allowed himself one more heartbreak, it would shatter him. Please, Alfredka, please. When he gives you his heart, you must not let it—”

“ _Stop._ ” This time, it was not Ivan that cut in, but Natalya. She stood rigid, her fists clenched at her sides. Her eyes blazed, even as the rest of her face remained still. “He hates this. Look at him. You know that he does.”

Alfred did look at him. Ivan sat back on his heels, his muscles tense, staring at the stained carpet without seeing it. The scars on his neck pulled so tight, they seemed ready to unravel. Suddenly, Alfred didn’t feel enchanted. Something like guilt tangled up in his gut.

“Why,” Natalya demanded, “do you talk about these things right in front of him?”

Katyusha faltered. Her expression shuttered and, though Alfred tried to keep her hands over his, she slipped away with tear-bright eyes. “I… You are right. I’m sorry. I only thought…”

A flicker of shadow caught Alfred’s attention. Ivan walked over to the outlet where Alfred’s phone was and unplugged the charger, wrapping it up in his hands. He made meaningful eye contact with Alfred. Then, he walked to the front door and Alfred knew to follow.

“Hey…” he tried, once they reached the exit. Ivan put the phone, along with the cord, into his hands.

“I apologize on behalf of my sisters.” Ivan’s voice was quiet and, now that Alfred was looking for it, he could almost make out the walls behind Ivan’s eyes. He kept them guarded. “They can be…overbearing, in their ways.”

Alfred cracked a smile. “Katyusha’s really nice.”

Ivan accepted his assessment with a nod. He seemed distracted by something over Alfred’s shoulder. A bedroom door slammed somewhere behind him. “Since Mama…” Ivan paused, looking inward. A slow blink brought him back to the present. He opened the front door, and Alfred did all he could to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest. “Well, she thinks it is her job to act as a mother figure to me and Natalya.”

“I get that. And Natalya’s…fun.” Alfred toed on either of his shoes, moving slowly. He knew he was supposed to get going, step outside, but he…really didn’t want to. “You know she showed me her knife collection?”

“This is so?” Fleeting mischief glittered in Ivan’s eyes. “She must like you.”

“Yeah?” Alfred frowned when Ivan’s hand landed between his shoulder blades. He was being ushered out. He couldn’t even enjoy Ivan’s touch as it guided him past the threshold. “Well hey, it’s no problem. I had a good time.” Thinking fast, he thought to add, “Yeah but, uh—Guess you’ll just have to make this whole thing up to me with another date. Preferably somewhere we won’t be…interrupted.”

“I see.” Ivan led him up to the doors of the glass elevator. Alfred couldn’t even be impressed by its grandeur, this time around. Not with that damn _down_ arrow blinking at him. Ivan, on the other hand, watched it like one would gaze upon a lover. “You are still chasing after me, more concerned about writing some foolish love story than you are about living to see the ending.”

“Yeah? Maybe I am.” Alfred watched the steady blink of the floor numbers leading up to theirs. “But a little birdie told me, just maybe, you might be feeling something similar.”

Ivan stiffened, all the way down his spine. “I want to fuck you,” he said, after a careful moment. “That does not mean I want you in my heart.”

“I believe you don’t want it.”

The elevator arrived with a _ding._ Alfred took a breath. He didn’t want to leave on this note. He didn’t want this to be the last time he stepped into this stupid elevator, and he definitely didn’t want it to be the last time he saw Ivan act so _soft._ His hands clenched around the phone cord.

“Vanya?” Alfred paused in between the mechanical doors, to hold them open. “Um, can I…call you that? Not at work. Just…sometimes?”

After brief consideration, Ivan nodded.

“Okay.” Alfred nodded back. That was a hopeful sign. “So, Vanya, I’m just wondering… What else would you have done? If you weren’t doing this mob stuff, I mean.

“If my life had gone differently?” Ivan fell quiet. He was back to avoiding Alfred’s gaze, his expression shut tight against anything that might try to pry its way inside. When he finally spoke again, his voice sounded thick. Small. “I wanted to own a flower shop.”

Alfred’s heart _panged._ Those words, spoken with such sincerity and angst… All at once, Alfred understood what Katyusha had been telling him: Ivan Braginsky was a man who’d suffered terrible, terrible pains.

“Just because the scars won’t go away,” Alfred said slowly, “that doesn’t mean you aren’t healing.”

The corners of Ivan’s mouth twitched. “You are a fool, Alfred Jones.”

“ _Durak,_ ” Alfred shot back.

He watched Ivan’s smile. It was one of his real ones, delicate, shy. The image stayed in Alfred’s mind even after the elevator doors had closed, and he ended up back in his car in a daze. He started the engine but, before he pulled off into the night, he plugged in his phone and navigated to a certain Etsy shop. Now that he had the extra cash, there would be no harm in his pleasure spending.

A wooden bear, he thought, would be a more than fitting purchase.


	15. Fireworks

This Fourth of July, Alfred got to spend his birthday in his favorite place in the world: The sky.

The cramped little cabin didn’t bother him one bit. As long as he was looking through the window, the space around him felt limitless. Heaven stretched for miles, a cerulean canvas adorned with white foam. As their destination grew nearer, Alfred could make out red-dusted mountains and neat little suburbs partitioned by winding roads. From this high up, Alfred felt the world belonged to him. The black vest he wore only bolstered his entitlement.

Ivan appeared less pleased.

The Old Bear sat with his eyes closed and his fingers laced over his chest for the majority of their flight. Every so often, Alfred thought he might be sleeping, but he opened his eyes again whenever Alfred examined him for too long. So, Alfred trained his attention through the window. It wasn’t hard to do if he only imagined himself as a pilot, shepherding five-hundred and seventy-four people from Manhattan to sunny Nevada. If Ivan’s dream had been to own a flower shop, Alfred’s was to own a private airline. He wondered, vaguely, if the mafia ever had need for flight operations.

“Yao has never respected me, but neither has he gone so far to remind me of that fact.” Ivan waited for the infant behind them to finish its wailing. Calmly, he added, “Until today.”

“What, you’re mad he didn’t get you first-class seats?” Alfred couldn’t help but laugh, even as Ivan’s frown deepened. “Welcome to the real world, dude. Normal people fly coach. He probably didn’t think anything of it.”

“It is pettiness.”

Alfred smiled back at his reflection in the window. Neither of them had mentioned Katyusha’s gushing about trauma and love, and if Ivan knew Alfred had ordered from his shop, he didn’t broach that subject either. Mostly, conversation revolved around work, money, and now, apparently, the disrespect of one Mister Yao Wang. Alfred couldn’t wait to meet him.

“We’re landing.” Alfred felt a vibration of excitement, mingling with feeble disappointment. He hated the thought of being back on the ground when there was still so much _sky_ left untouched by his presence—But he couldn’t deny the rush of a plane touching ground. It was almost as exhilarating as take-off.

“Somehow, this is worse.” Ivan closed his eyes again. Alfred didn’t miss the way he clutched either arm of his chair. Something fluttered in Alfred’s chest. Was Ivan nervous? It was true that most plane crashes took place during landing. That statistic never worried Alfred, but he could understand how some people might grow a bit fearful.

After a moment of consideration, Alfred touched Ivan’s arm. “Hey, it’s okay. Flying is the safest mode of transportation. I mean, with how much bullshit we’ve survived in the time I’ve known you _alone?_ We’re gonna be fine.”

“Planes do not frighten me, Ratboy.” Ivan glanced at him, puzzled. His expression softened when he noticed Alfred’s touch. Then he sighed and closed his eyes once more. “I am not looking forward to our company for the evening. This is all.”

“Oh.” Alfred gave a sheepish laugh. He looked back outside, where the runway was swiftly approaching. His hand didn’t move from Ivan’s arm, and Ivan didn’t retreat either. “Can’t relate.”

The journey from the plane to a ritzy casino in the heart of the city happened in a blur. Maybe it was the expedited baggage claim or the free limousine service—One look at Ivan’s face or, more realistically, the scars on his throat, and people scrambled to accommodate him as quickly as possible—or perhaps it was the adrenaline coursing Alfred’s veins that carried him so rapidly through the world. At this point, he would have believed some deeper magic to be at play, ushering them to their next big point of adventure—Even if Ivan did drag his feet the whole way there.

“Dude, this is insane!” Alfred all but yelled over the bustle and din closing in around him. The building they entered was tall, red, with golden accents and towering windows black as night. At its crown sprawled a giant panda made of some precious stone. It held a scroll between its paws, which boasted the name of the establishment. Alfred didn’t have time to read it before they were whisked inside by a dark-haired man in a silk shirt.

Ivan owned a restaurant and a series of nightclubs. But the man called Yao Wang… He appeared to run an entire corner of the universe, all wrapped up in a single showroom in Vegas.

Two fingers hooked into Alfred’s sleeve. He stumbled, and it was the only thing keeping him from following the glittering lights all the way into the building’s core. “Stay close to me.”

Alfred turned a smile on Ivan. The flashing lights washed the Old Bear out, made it impossible to read his expression, but Alfred got the sense that he was—anxious, somehow. His suspicions only deepened when Ivan shuffled closer. Violet eyes darted around the crowded entryway like a man with a bounty on his head. _It’s all the people,_ Alfred thought, _he doesn’t like feeling closed in like this._ So, Alfred slipped his hand into Ivan’s and, with a squeeze, began to pave a path forward.

“Where exactly are we?” Alfred also found himself searching the crowds, but for a different reason. He felt captivated by the diverse features and snippets of foreign conversation whirling around him. This place must have drawn patrons from across their world and the next one over; even New York City couldn’t rival this.

“What does it look like?” Ivan shouldered past people who didn’t bother to excuse themselves from his path. Alfred wondered if they knew who he was. If they cared.

Their guide routed them to a magnificent bar spanning the entire back wall. Flashing lights and blaring piano music captured his senses. Some of the men sprawled in the surrounding plush seats with such vacant expressions, Alfred suspected they were under the influence of something more potent than alcohol. He decided not to say anything.

“The Old Bear has arrived. Such an honor.” A young man with dark, choppy hair emerged from one of the back rooms, wearing some sort of burgundy robe over his clothes. His brown eyes were light, familiar. The only difference from the last time Alfred saw him was, now, he was not handing him a duffle bag full of guns.

“Oh, hey…you!” Alfred smiled, to distract from the fact that he’d most certainly forgotten this guy’s name. “What’s up, my dude?”

“Xiao Chun Li,” Ivan said, after a pause. “It is good to see you again.”

“ _Xiao Chun_ ,” Alfred said, remembering. “Same here. Good to see ya.”

The young man smiled, serene. His eyes moved over Ivan first, then Alfred. After a moment, he said, “The boss is through here. Yong Soo will take your bags.”

“Oh, right on.” Alfred had barely turned around by the time his bags were being piled onto a wheeled cart behind them. Then, he felt his jacket being wrestled off his shoulders and shouted out. “Whoa, dude, can I—A little _space_ here, maybe?”

“Boss’s orders.” The man called Yong Soo smiled. He tugged Alfred’s jacket the rest of the way off. Ivan was already holding his own coat out to him by the time he’d finished. “Thank you, sir.”

Alfred snorted. He snuck a glance at Ivan, who didn’t look nearly as bothered as Alfred felt. Ivan’s jaw was still tight, his body language stiff and constrained, but no signs of annoyance showed on his face. Alfred didn’t necessarily take that to mean he _shouldn’t_ be annoyed. He watched as their luggage was rolled away, dissolving into the masses.

“We better be getting that back,” Alfred mumbled over his shoulder to Ivan. “All of it.”

“You will find all your belongings in perfect condition once you retire to your rooms.” Xiao’s voice sounded automatic, like he was reciting a script, and Alfred didn’t trust that level of precision. “Right this way.”

Xiao nodded to two men flanking the back entrance. They acknowledged him. Then, one moved to pull open the door. Alfred followed Xiao and Ivan through layers of beaded curtains. The clinking and clattering of the little wooden trinkets drowned out even the clamoring roar of the casino. A good alarm system, Alfred thought, if you wanted to keep track of your company—Invited or not.

“Stop here.”

Alfred just managed to stop himself before colliding with Ivan. The hallway was narrow, dark, and Alfred hardly saw Xiao as he approached him. Without warning, he started patting Alfred down. His hands moved from Alfred’s waist, down one of his legs, and up the other, before groping beneath his arms.

“Okay, hey, you have been in my bubble a _lot_ the past ten minutes,” Alfred protested, but when he backed up, it was into the wall. “We gonna get a strip search going next, or are you satisfied with the third base happening right now?”

“Is this all you have?” Xiao held up Alfred’s pocketknife between them.

“When did you…?” Alfred squinted. He hadn’t felt Xiao go into his pocket. “Yeah, man, I mean, airport security doesn’t exactly let you run around with bombs strapped to your ass.”

Xiao hummed. He tucked Alfred’s blade somewhere out of sight. Before Alfred could argue, he turned to Ivan.

“Xiao.” Ivan held up a hand to stop him. “You know I am armed. Yao knows this too. He has never asked me to turn over my weapons before.”

 _You’re armed?_ Alfred nearly asked. But it would have been a stupid question; if the men in dark suits could smoke wherever they wanted, they could bring their guns wherever they wanted, too. Except, apparently, into the vicinity of Yao Wang.

“That was before,” Xiao said simply. He held out his hand.

Ivan’s chest rose on a long inhale. “I will not do it.”

“Then you will not meet him.”

The flow of air felt choked in that cramped corridor. Alfred examined the two men. Ivan stood tall, broad enough for his shoulders to brush the walls on either side of him, but his stance was not imposing. Xiao was small of stature and soft of voice, but he commanded the space with a serene sort of confidence. His patience didn’t dwindle, and his hand didn’t move from the space between them.

“He is kind enough to ask you for them,” Xiao said, “instead of subjecting you to a search.”

More wordless moments slipped past. When Ivan finally moved to retrieve his weapons—A gun in his belt, another strapped to his leg, and a couple of knives hidden in his clothes (Alfred imagined he had even more in his coat)—it was with a faraway look in his eye. It took Alfred a minute to realize he wasn’t just zoning out; he was making eye contact with someone on the other side of that hall. The figure vanished before Alfred could identify it, but he had a pretty good idea who it was.

“Many thanks.” Ivan’s weapons vanished with a whirl of Xiao’s robes. “He is waiting in this room.”

Xiao held open the final set of beaded curtains. Ivan ducked through, so Alfred followed. He didn’t like that smirk on Xiao’s face, but he only caught it for a second before the curtains closed around him.

“You are late.”

Alfred blinked his attention to a new face. _Yao Wang._ He swore he remembered something about Yao having been a boss since Ivan himself was young. Looking at him now, Alfred had a hard time believing that; such a timeline would put Yao at fifty-something _at least_ , and Alfred couldn’t make out a single sign of his age. Yao’s skin was perfectly smooth, his sleek brown hair undisturbed by even one grey. He was short and slight, a wraith of preternatural youth. Not even his eyes revealed his age, not like Ivan’s. They glittered like onyx, reflecting Alfred’s image back at him—But only for an instant. Yao didn’t pay him any more attention than he had to.

“Yao.” Ivan’s lips quirked into a lifeless smile. “We would have been here sooner, but our flight had several delays and quite long layovers. This might have been avoided with a direct line, I am thinking.”

“You insisted on bringing someone with you.” Yao’s ponytail fell off his shoulder when he shrugged. “I had to split the cost of your ticket. You understand.”

Ivan’s smile didn’t change. His eyes remained unaffected. “It is good to see you again.”

“Still a liar, I see.” Dark eyes moved over Ivan’s body. Yao took his time, unabashed, even as his gaze traveled up Ivan’s thighs, across his chest. At first, Alfred felt an itchy discomfort flare up inside him. _Was he checking Ivan out?_ Then, slowly, he realized: Yao was searching him for weapons. “What else are you dishonest about?”

“Well, he turned in his weapons,” Alfred assured him, if not a bit indignantly. “Back there. Like, I watched him do it. You took his coat too, so it’s not like he has a ton of layers to hide—”

Yao spoke over him, then, in a language Alfred didn’t understand. Chinese, if he had to guess. He didn’t raise his voice; his tone was conversational, as though he were continuing a discussion Alfred wasn’t even a part of. The worst part was, Ivan responded. In Chinese, no less.

“Are you kidding me? You know Russian, English, _and_ Chinese?”

Ivan _did_ stop when Alfred interrupted. He took a breath before sparing him a glance. “Jones. Take a walk.”

Alfred bit the inside of his cheek. He couldn’t argue, though, because Yao Wang had shown Ivan enough disregard already. Alfred was supposed to be his righthand man. He wouldn’t contribute to the disrespect, in much the same way Ivan wouldn’t disrespect him by calling him _Rat_. Not now. “Sure, boss. Holler if you need me.”

Alfred felt uneasy, leaving Ivan with Yao. First, because he’d wanted to be a part of the conversation with the big dogs. Second, because Yao was the first person Alfred had seen Ivan relinquish any amount of power to. He didn’t like it, and he didn’t want to leave him alone in that position. He let Xiao Chun show him out all the same, because it was the Old Bear’s will. He could give him a hard time about it later. This moment was a display of loyalty. He thought of Yao’s eyes, traveling over Ivan’s body, and hoped that loyalty would be reciprocated.

In the meantime, Alfred wandered between rows of slot machines and roulette wheels. His attention caught on the card tables. _That_ was where the money came from. Humans were easier to beat than machines.

He edged close, watching the conclusion of a game of Blackjack. The dealer won. From the look on the player’s face, this wasn’t the first game, either. In a drunken huff, the man staggered from his chair. Alfred smirked. He touched the playing card in his pocket and took the empty seat.

“Have you played before?” The woman across from him asked.

“First time,” Alfred lied. “Any tips?”

Alfred watched a fresh deck of cards shuffle between the woman’s hands. She didn’t offer any advice before launching into a dry explanation of how the game worked. Alfred wasn’t listening. His mind was preoccupied with _arithmetic—_ Feliks praising his math skills and Ivan trusting him with his finances—and remembering how to count cards.

“Sounds fun. Should I make my bet now then?”

Alfred’s words flowed automatically, lilting with cheer in all the right places. Card counting was not illegal, no matter what a casino might have you believe. You _could_ , however, be removed from a game at the house’s discretion if they felt you were costing them too much money. So, Alfred had to play it casual. Make small talk. Don’t hyper-fixate on the cards. Just keep his mouth moving and never let his hand stray too far from his lucky ace.

He lost the first few rounds, but that was okay. He was rusty with his counting strategy. He didn’t want to look suspicious winning right off the bat anyway and, to be honest, he was still a little anxious about Ivan’s meeting with Yao. His leg bounced restlessly under the card table. He made himself focus on the numbers and suits before him.

“Hit me.”

The dealer revealed a low card. Alfred adjusted his mental tally. After pausing for theatrical consideration, he doubled his bet. And the next card turned up in his favor.

“Nice! I guess my luck is looking up, huh?” Alfred beamed. “You know it’s my birthday today? My mom gave me some cash to play around with, so I’m just glad I haven’t blown it all within five minutes of walking through the door. Guess there’s still time, though!”

The dealer nodded and didn’t bother to shuffle the cards. Alfred’s tally remained unhindered. The wins got bigger, after that, and the losses were minimal. His excitement wasn’t entirely feigned, but his cheers and whoops of delight kept suspicion off of him and amused the small crowd forming around him. He was just some dumb kid celebrating his birthday alone in Vegas. His earnings stood at three hundred dollars.

“Dude! If this keeps up, maybe I’ll get myself a new PlayStation. Old one broke when my bro and I were playing hockey in the house. We really shoulda played with a disc instead of a puck, because that sucker went _straight_ into the disc drive.”

Alfred’s anecdote, and the animated composition of his hands, won him a few chuckles from his audience. His smile quirked wider. Everything was a buzz in his chest, his ears, except for the money he’d won and the ace in his pocket. Then, the dealer shuffled. His tally was lost. _Dammit._ He couldn’t leave now, though, or it would be suspicious; his next play would have to be a matter of chance.

Good thing he was feeling lucky.

“Last time, I swear.” Alfred laughed, good-naturedly. After a moment’s thought, he rapped his knuckles on the table. “Let’s go all or nothing.”

A small murmur rippled through the group lingering around him. From his lap, his thumb stroked the edge of his playing card. The dealer turned a king up in front of him. Bad start. Three hundred dollars were at stake—Over one-third of his share of rent. And the dealer had a low card.

“I’ll double down.”

Alfred drowned out the faint buzz of disapproval. His skin slid pleasantly along the smooth plastic coating of his ace. Wordless, the dealer revealed his next card. His mouth went dry as he added up his total; his hand stood at exactly 20 points.

Hushed conversation started up over his shoulder. Another patron got ready to take his seat. By all accounts, the game should have ended there.

“Hit me again.”

The buzz became a roar of dissent. Even the dealer couldn’t keep from wrinkling her nose, with a deliberate, “You know if you go over twenty-one, you bust. Right?”

“You better stop here, boy,” one man pitched from the crowd. A few others voiced their agreement. They might have been mute, for all it mattered.

“I want a triple.” Alfred leaned an elbow on the table. He cast a sidelong glance at the dealer, smiling still, when his attention caught on a figure near the bar. It was Ivan, back from his meeting and heading toward him. Absently, he folded his lucky ace back into his pocket. You didn’t light a candle when the sun was shining right there. “Hit me.”

The dealer quirked a brow, shrugged, and drew from the top of her deck. All around him, Alfred’s viewers started to disperse, driven apart by frustration. He acknowledged the tension in the air, but it did not touch him. He sprawled comfortably in his chair, watching as the dealer laid down his card. And there it was, familiar as the face of a long-time lover: The ace of hearts.

A perfect twenty-one.

“Right _on!_ ” Alfred laughed, loud enough to recapture the attention of those who’d started to filter away. He shoved his hands up under his glasses, swiping at blurry eyes. When the frames resettled on his nose, he realized Ivan wasn’t the only one approaching. A brunette with an earpiece and an agitated expression blazed toward him. “No way I’m gonna get any luckier than that. I’ll stop while I’m ahead. Thanks!”

Alfred was still laughing by the time he spun away from the card table, away from the security guard who watched to make sure he didn’t try to weasel in another round. He fell into Ivan’s chest, shaking his head against the other man’s neck. Ivan stiffened, though Alfred hardly noticed. The scent of booze mingled with the taste of his victory.

“Man. Oh _man._ Guess who just won almost a _thousand_ dollars tonight.” Alfred looked up, blue eyes bright with amusement. His fingers closed into Ivan’s shirt. “Did you see that?”

“Mhm.”

“I was at twenty points, no kidding, and you know what came up next? _Boom._ Ace of hearts. Not even fucking with you. And this is _after_ she shuffled the deck. Ace of hearts!”

“Mhm.”

“I don’t even blame ‘em for sending security for me. Hell, _I’m_ almost convinced I was cheating. I wouldn’t want me playing either. But, hey, they can check the cameras. That shit was pure, raw _luck_ —Oh.”

A knife appeared at Alfred’s stomach. He felt something lurch in his chest. A smile cracked across his face. “Got tired of telling me to shut up?”

“This is yours.” Ivan nudged the thing closer and, only then did Alfred realize, it was _his_ pocketknife, and it was sheathed. “Your jacket too. Here.”

“Oh, shit, thanks.” Alfred shrugged the jacket over his shoulders and tucked his knife into his pocket. “Guess I forgot about this stuff. Got lost in the thrill of my _awesome victory._ Speaking of which, where do I redeem this shit?”

Ivan tucked a hand around Alfred’s waist. Silent, he began leading him to a row of machines near the entrance. Alfred leaned into his side, still reeling in his triumph. He turned his head against Ivan’s shoulder. For the first time since Ivan’s return, Alfred noticed the tired droop to his eyes, the crooked sway in his step. He hooked an arm around Ivan’s shoulders while they walked.

“How was your meeting with Yao?”

“Fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Alfred watched Ivan watching the path ahead of them. His gaze was unfocused, his eyes faintly rimmed with red. “Were you drinking?”

“You would too, in my position.”

Ivan let Alfred go ahead to redeem his winnings. Alfred decided not to press. He fed his ticket into one of the machines and, in turn, it spat out nine one-hundred-dollar bills. Alfred fanned them out in front of him. The pounding of his heart muted all the other sounds of the casino. He hardly noticed when Ivan began leading him to the front doors.

“Hey.” Alfred turned suddenly, pinning the cash to Ivan’s chest. His voice dropped, turning playful. “Come cheat with me.”

“Why would I do this?” Ivan’s voice muffled around the end of an unlit cigarette. He kept steering them toward the exit. “Better, _how_ would I do this? You are aware Yao has likely instructed his employees to keep a particularly vigilant watch over us? I imagine the dealer that let you win tonight will be without a job tomorrow.”

“Fine, alright.” Alfred snickered, shaking his head. But he didn’t want to leave just yet. He planted his heels. “Let’s just go blow my winnings on slots then, huh?”

“I have a better idea.” Ivan’s hand settled on Alfred’s lower back, beneath his jacket. All at once, Alfred sobered up from the high of his achievement. That cool palm grounded him in the present, particularly as Ivan began rubbing small circles over his shirt. “We will go up to our room. Watch the fireworks.”

Alfred swallowed. For the first time since they’d arrived in Vegas, a dizzying realization hit: _They were sharing a hotel room._ Of course they were. He merely nodded, allowing Ivan to guide him through a faceless crowd. His money folded into his pocket, forgotten almost the same instant as it was hidden away.

“I should warn you,” Ivan said, as they crossed a busy street among a flood of other pedestrians. “Yao is the one responsible for our hotel reservations as well.”

“No lie, I wouldn’t care if Lovino Vargas himself reserved us a fucking storage closet in an abandoned McDonald’s.” Alfred grinned when Ivan cocked a brow at him, and dared to lean into him again, just a little. “It’s all about the company you keep, right?”

Alfred might not have noticed when, exactly, they’d stepped outside, or how far they’d walked, but the sprinkle of cold rain on his skin assured him that this was real. Disorienting streaks of red, yellow, and green light blurred across wet pavement. The sounds of the city were muffled, as though coming from the other side of a dream. Ivan still hadn’t pulled away from him, allowing Alfred’s head to rest upon his shoulder. But all of it was entirely and blissfully _real._

“This place is kinda cute.” Alfred looked all around as they entered a grand hotel somewhere down the block from the casino. A little bridge carried them from the tall front doors over a pool of koi fish and coins. Tiny waterfalls streamed over smooth stone structures and into the pond below. Magnificent tapestries clung to the walls, accented with golden foils and threads. The carpet was noticeably soft, even despite the thick sole of his shoe. It muted the sound of their footsteps as they approached the front desk. Alfred had the feeling this place was owned by Yao as well. “Fancier than any bed and breakfast I’ve ever stayed in, that’s for sure.”

“Go wait by the elevator,” Ivan said, nudging him in that direction. “I will check us in.”

“Sure thing, Vanya.”

Alfred didn’t stick around to gauge his reaction to that. It was enough that he’d gotten permission to use the nickname in the first place. He idled in the corner, gazing around at paper lanterns and the magnificent glass dragon holding up the chandelier. His attention shifted to a nearby statue sitting between tall stacks of coins. He didn’t recognize the figure—Supposed it must be a religious idol—but he _did_ recognize the material from which it was crafted: Pure, shimmering gold. Astonished, Alfred reached out to see if it could possibly be real. He wasn’t entirely sure how to tell the difference between real gold and fake gold, but human skin practically had built-in lie detectors for this kind of thing, right? A sharp whistle startled him backwards.

“Stop touching things.” Ivan hit the button for the elevator doors. They opened a second later. “Let’s go.”

The room Ivan let them into was more than luxurious by Alfred’s standards. The lights were dimmed down, casting the space in a relaxing glow. He was pleased to see their belongings stacked neatly beside a towering vanity. An empty hot tub stood near the doors to the balcony. Plant life decorated the walls, curling over the surface like a vibrant green lace. Leather armchairs sat on either side of an unlit fireplace, and a TV that must have been eighty inches wide hung above it. Most enticing of all: Sheer red and black curtains framed a king-sized bed set inside a twisting iron frame. There were more pillows on that bed than Alfred had in his entire apartment—They’d all need to be shoved onto the floor, to make room for two people.

Ivan did not look impressed. At first, Alfred worried it was because there was only one bed. Then he figured, as nice as this room was, perhaps it was one of the more modest spaces in this five-star establishment. Just another petty act of disrespect on Yao’s part. Finally, Alfred followed Ivan’s eyes to the corner, where a large metal cage sat open. A plump, velvet pillow rested inside, and a little paper crane rested on top.

“What the hell? You don’t have a dog. Did he think you were bringing your cat or something?” Alfred laughed at the spectacle. He moved closer before he noticed the ink seeping through the wings of the origami bird. He cocked his head and reached to unfold it. “Dude, this shit’s written in Chinese.”

Ivan drew up to his side, gently accepting the note from his hands. His eyes moved across the page before lightening with amusement. Alfred looked on over his shoulder.

“What’s it say?”

Ivan breathed a single laugh. He raised his brows and read, “‘For you and your pet. Wang.’”

“Wow…” Alfred laughed. He’d won too much money from Yao’s precious casino to take his insults to heart. Besides, that single bed at the head of the room kept his mood from dampening, even for a second. He joked instead. “You were right. Dude’s _super_ petty.”

“I know this.” Ivan stopped for a moment, musing. At last, he gestured to the cage. “I don’t suppose you are actually interested in such a thing?”

“To be determined.” Alfred grinned. “But hey, I’m gonna get the AC running. It’s hot as balls in this place.”

He pulled off his jacket, folding it over the side of the hot tub. His eyes caught on his reflection in the balcony doors. Through the part in the curtains, he could just make out a few stray fireworks spraying the sky with color. His heart tittered beneath his ribs.

Alfred turned from the window, taking his hat into his hands. It was the one he’d bought online just a few months ago. The one Arthur had scolded him for. He hadn’t gotten the chance to wear it until tonight. His hands moved absently over the felt-lined rim. “It’s my birthday today.”

“Happy birthday.”

Ivan’s reply was simple, but it made Alfred smile all the same. He knew Ivan wouldn’t have said anything at all if he did not care. His acknowledgement was meaningful enough. Alfred set aside his hat and started working on his vest next. Instead of stripping out of his own coat, though, Ivan produced a cigarette from its pocket.

“You supposed to be smoking in here, sir?” Alfred teased.

Ivan made a show of turning his head from side to side. “I do not see a sign. Are you going to throw me out?”

Alfred’s smile grew. “You know how bad those things are for you, right?”

Ivan hummed, noncommittal. He flicked on his lighter, but his eyes caught on the flame before it ever touched the end of his cigarette. A moment passed in silence. Then, as though speaking only to himself, Ivan muttered, “You responded so well to the cold.”

“What’s up?” Alfred paused when he saw Ivan’s eyes, glowing in the flamelight. He finished shrugging off his vest, slowly. “What’s, uh, what’s on your mind there, big guy?”

Ivan settled into one of the tall leather chairs in the corner. With his free hand, he took his cigarette from his lips and set it on the vanity. “Come.”

Alfred’s breath skipped as he obeyed. Each step he took seemed to carry him through time, back to that night in his living room. Ivan had been sitting in front of him, just like this, and it hadn’t taken long before…

“Eyes up here.”

That wry comment snapped Alfred’s attention away from Ivan’s belt. He allowed a guilty smile, even if he didn’t feel guilty _really_ , and closed the gap between them. Ivan tilted his chin up to search his eyes. It was strange, being taller than Ivan Braginsky. But Alfred reminded himself it was only because Ivan was sitting, and even then, he wasn’t _that_ much taller.

Four points of cold contact met Alfred’s back. He startled. For a second, he thought, _ice, where did he get more ice?_ Then, he realized it was Ivan’s fingers sliding up the back of his shirt. He could tell from the calluses.

“You jumped.” Ivan tilted his head. He stroked Alfred’s lower back, sending chills across his skin. “Does this bother you?”

“No,” Alfred said quickly. “Just…a little cold.”

“I understand.” Ivan’s gaze darkened a shade as his lighter went out. Alfred blinked a few times, letting his eyes adjust to the sudden lack of light. When they did, he realized Ivan had brought his other hand behind him too, and…

“ _Ah_ —Shit.” Alfred gasped, arching away from a sudden flare of heat against his back. _The lighter_ , he realized. It was no longer lit, but Ivan pressed the still-hot metal into his flesh. Then he pulled it back, stroking the raw spot with his thumb. Alfred relaxed.

“Did it hurt?”

“Wasn’t expecting it.” Alfred caught Ivan’s hand before he could retreat. He urged the lighter close again. “That’s all.”

A light smile touched Ivan’s lips. He held Alfred’s gaze as he returned the lighter to the small of his back. This time, when Alfred heard the faint _click_ , he was ready for what came next.

“ _Mmph._ ” Heat raced up the base of Alfred’s spine. His muscles tensed, clenched, and slackened again once the metal moved away. Alfred sighed, allowing his attention to fall back to Ivan. And, god, the way Ivan was _looking_ at him. There was such fascination, such wonder swimming in those violet eyes. Alfred felt a smile quirk as pride welled within him. “What’s that look for?”

Ivan hooked two fingers into the hem of Alfred’s shirt and tugged. That was all the reply Alfred needed. No sooner had he wrestled his shirt up over his head, tangling himself up in a mess of golden hair and loose glasses, than Ivan was hooking an arm around his waist, dragging him down into his lap.

Their lips flushed hot together.

At first, it was all breathless panting and wandering hands. Alfred tasted booze. He ran his fingers through Ivan’s hair and curled his hands behind his ears and gasped between open-mouthed kisses. And Ivan really was so _cold._ He chased goosebumps up Alfred’s back, down his sides, made him shudder and twitch. His thighs tightened over Ivan’s own, and his head rushed when he pulled away.

“My turn,” Alfred cracked a smile, even as he fought to catch his breath. Ivan took a moment to regain focus. His chest rose and fell under Alfred’s palm. At last, he noticed Alfred’s other hand, face up between them, and pressed the lighter down into it.

“If we’ve come this far just for you to try and kill me, I will be disappointed.”

Alfred chuckled. “Are you scared of me?” He echoed Ivan’s words from that night in his Cadillac. It felt like a long time ago.

Ivan met Alfred’s eyes and lit the lighter for him.

Alfred’s eyes brightened under that shivering flame. He bit his lip, thought a moment before extinguishing it. “I’m gonna need you to lose a few layers first.”

Ivan made a sound of acknowledgement. Alfred sat back on his lap and watched as Ivan unfastened his coat. Then, his heart jumped as Ivan began working open his dress shirt, exposing a growing sliver of pale skin. He hardly waited for Ivan to finish before he pushed the fabric off his chest.

It was incredible how, even under all those layers, Ivan’s body was as thick as ever. Alfred dragged a palm across his chest, a sturdy blend of muscle and fat. A few scars showed on his skin but, for the most part, a coarse coat of hair obscured his blemishes; it covered his breast entirely before narrowing into a prominent happy trail. Alfred traced that flirtatious path down to Ivan’s belly, which hung comfortably over the hem of his dress pants. Then, he let the flame of his lighter warm the metal and pressed it into Ivan’s skin.

A sharp growl made Alfred jerk away. His gaze flew to Ivan’s face. “You okay?”

Ivan didn’t open his eyes when he said, “Do it again.”

This time, Alfred held the flame an inch away from Ivan’s skin. He moved slowly, allowing the heat to lick across Ivan’s abdomen without ever extinguishing it. His eyes flicked between Ivan’s torso, tensing and twitching beneath the skin, and his face. He noticed that Ivan’s eyes had opened again, watching the fire drag across his own flesh with open curiosity. Alfred couldn’t tell if he liked it, and he wasn’t sure Ivan could either.

“Someone once drenched my scarf in acetone and set a match to it,” Ivan said, soft, as though distracted. “Back in Minsk.”

“Christ.” Alfred’s eyes shifted to Ivan’s neck, the old wounds gleaming there. But no, those scars were too distinct, too jagged, to have come from a fire. “You got it off in time?”

“I wrapped it around his head, like a _babushka_ in an Orthodox church.” Ivan’s throat moved as Alfred dragged the flame across his ribs. His breaths stayed even. “You mentioned taking my money back from the Italians.”

The abrupt shift in conversation gave Alfred whiplash. He blinked, then breathed a laugh. The fire _fwip fwip fwipped_ over Ivan’s chest. “I did. Yeah.”

“How do you intend to do this again?”

Alfred braced a wrist against Ivan’s shoulder and flicked off the lighter, leveling a smile on him. “We’re really talking business right now, huh?”

“Your goals are ambitious. We should discuss them before you take it upon yourself to act alone, running on some fool’s fantasy.”

Alfred clicked the lighter back on. He dragged the flame a little too close to Ivan’s collar, but Ivan didn’t retreat. The only indication that he even felt the heat came from the occasional tweak of his muscles. Other than that, Ivan sat perfectly still, as though to prove how much he could take. And Alfred watched, mesmerized by the flame creeping over white skin.

“Well… That restaurant they run is pretty old,” Alfred began. Warmth curled back up into his face as he moved the lighter over Ivan’s shoulder. “It’s got a cute look. Vintage. But lots of wood, too.” He tilted his head, following the flame to the crook of Ivan’s neck. Ivan pretended not to tense, but Alfred felt it. His own breathing sped up, just a little. “And obviously, a little gasoline will help with anything that doesn’t burn so easily. Or acetone.”

“Look at you, getting excited.”

Alfred breathed a laugh. Flamelight flickered across his glasses, hiding his eyes from view. The fire crept up Ivan’s neck, washing his scars with light. “Don’t know what you mean.”

“Alfred. Put the lighter down.”

At first, Alfred thought he might be in trouble. His grip on the lighter faltered and he allowed the flame to gutter. His mouth worked over unspoken apologies; unspoken, in part, because he didn’t feel he owed them. This was a mutual thing, right? Ivan had encouraged it, even. He _liked_ it. Alfred wouldn’t be made to second guess himself when the evidence was right there in the way Ivan shuddered, in the way he arched up into the flame. So, why…?

Ivan stood suddenly. He grunted as he hoisted Alfred up, pinning his back to the wall. Alfred gasped. The lighter tumbled from his grip as he clung to Ivan’s shoulders. His legs tangled around broad hips, holding him up.

Alfred’s heart kicked into a frenzied beat. He wasn’t a little guy. Even without his customary winter fat, Alfred’s arms and thighs were nearly as thick as Ivan’s, and there was no hiding his stomach. People didn’t just _pick him up_ like that. But Ivan’s hands planted under his ass, and his body pressed him up tight against the wall, and Alfred didn’t slip even when Ivan began to kiss him.

Ivan’s tongue felt cool as it traced Alfred’s lips, teasing at the edges before curling in again. Alfred tried to catch him. His mouth opened under Ivan’s own, inviting, and he groaned when Ivan filled it. Blindly, he worked to shove Ivan’s clothes off his shoulders. After a bit of a struggle—Neither of them dared break the kiss—his coat and shirt crumpled to the floor. Alfred felt hair and _sweat_ push up against him, after that. He dragged his fingers down Ivan’s back, tracing hard lines of musculature. Every so often, he’d discover a new scar and stroke it, over and over, memorizing the rigid trail of exposed tissue.

Ivan shifted his weight, and again, until Alfred realized—His leg was beginning to bother him. Alfred chuckled against Ivan’s lips. He didn’t miss the shiver that gripped Ivan’s spine. Then, he plunged his tongue deep into Ivan’s mouth. At the same time, he threw his weight forward, toppling them both onto the bed. Ivan grunted in surprise, but his mouth only opened wider when Alfred climbed on top of him. He hooked a leg over both of Ivan’s hips, straddling him. The strokes of their tongues ran hot together.

“Fuck.” Alfred gasped when Ivan grabbed his hips. Slowly, Ivan rolled up against him, dragging him down into every thrust. Even through their clothes, Alfred felt that familiar bulge grinding into his ass.

“Fuck,” Ivan mocked, emphasizing every letter.

Alfred’s breath escaped him. He groped his way down Ivan’s body, sliding his hands over pale skin and coarse hair. Ivan kept moving underneath him, and Alfred rocked back against him, even as he bent for another kiss. Ivan’s breath hitched, and that’s when Alfred realized—He’d put his weight on Ivan’s bad leg.

“You know…” Alfred laughed as he scattered kisses down Ivan’s neck. “If your leg is bothering you too much, I don’t mind picking up the slack.” He wiggled in Ivan’s lap, teasing that heavy shape behind his belt. “You can even roll over, relax while I take care of that big, handsome— _Ah._ ” Alfred’s head tugged backwards, exposing his throat. A sudden, sharp pain in his scalp turned his vision white.

“You are lucky if I don’t grab you by your hair and fuck you like a dog.” Ivan sat up to snarl against his skin. Alfred felt a flash of teeth against his Adam’s apple. “Do not…get cocky with me.”

“Touchy,” Alfred managed, before being dragged into another open-mouthed kiss. His chest pressed tight against Ivan’s. He tangled his legs around the other man’s waist just in time for Ivan to buck into him, bouncing him in his lap. His own clothed erection dragged across Ivan’s stomach. The contact only made him swell up harder.

Then, Ivan shoved him backwards. He lost his breath as he fell against the mattress. Before he could recover, Ivan was on him, all around him. He gathered both of Alfred’s wrists in one hand, pinned them above his head. Alfred could have wrestled his way free—Until Ivan bore his weight down over him, keeping him trapped. His free hand rubbed its way down Alfred’s side. Alfred wriggled away from that too-gentle touch.

“Not even gonna let me fight back?” he asked, breathing a laugh.

The look on Ivan’s face was subtle, pensive, but _hungry._ He traced a knuckle down the crease of Alfred’s hip. “You are invited to try.”

Alfred wouldn’t have, normally. He was content to let Ivan pin him and kiss him and fuck him until his thoughts ran to mud. But that little smile on Ivan’s face…it was a _challenge._

“I don’t try, baby.” Alfred braced himself before wrenching sideways. He hissed when something pulled in his shoulder. His hands still didn’t come free. He clenched his teeth and tried to get some leverage with his feet—But Ivan just kicked them out again. And he looked _pleased,_ the fucker, stroking the soft skin below Alfred’s tummy even as he pinned him. Alfred readied himself for a third attempt, the muscles going taut in his arms. “I just…do— _Fuck_.”

Ivan palmed the spot between Alfred’s legs. A pulse of heat ran straight to his cock, making him squirm under Ivan’s touch. But he couldn’t escape it. Ivan rubbed him through his pants in a slow, agonizing back and forth.

“Tell me what you want, Rat.”

The words pulsed against Alfred’s ear, turned his blood to fire. He swallowed as Ivan kissed the tender space beneath his ear. His hand kept working down below.

“I want…” Alfred looked around best he could through the growing fog on his glasses. He needed some kind of advantage, a weak point in Ivan’s stance, an opportunity to—

“No…” Ivan clicked his tongue, bracing himself harder over Alfred’s wrists. His other hand pushed past the waistband of his pants, teasing him through his underwear. An approving little coo made Alfred flush hot. “It is obvious, so tell me what you really want.”

A low whine tangled up in Alfred’s throat. He tried to shift away from Ivan’s hand, and Ivan only touched him sweeter. “I want you to fuck me.” The confession shredded past his lips. His breaths broke on shallow little groans when Ivan rewarded his cock with a full stroke. “Ever since I met you in that restaurant, I’ve wanted you to fuck me ‘til I can’t walk straight.”

“Ah…” Ivan reached into Alfred’s boxers then, until he could brush a callused thumb across the head of him. Alfred whimpered as Ivan’s smile grew. Not unkindly, he said, “But we don’t have any lubricant.”

 _Oh, hell no_. “I brought some,” he said, too quickly. “In my suitcase. Front pocket.”

He wasn’t about to let this experience get ruined for him too. It didn’t matter _how_ amused Ivan looked when he got off of him—Because at least he was _getting_ off, and Alfred was free to fumble for his bag until that tiny bottle of liquid promise was in his hand.

“Alfred,” Ivan said, sing-song, before Alfred could climb back on the bed. “What are you doing?”

“I’m…” Alfred gestured uncertainly.

“You are not getting back in this bed until those pants are on the floor.” Ivan looked Alfred over. Then his hands went to his own belt, and Alfred’s cock _throbbed._ “This is an order.”

“ _Shit._ ” Alfred kicked his pants around his ankles. His underwear followed suit. Then, Ivan was grabbing him, bearing him down into the pillows with a flurry of heated kisses.

“Spread your legs for me.”

Alfred obeyed. He shivered and twitched as Ivan traced a path around his nipples, across his ribs. When Ivan grabbed the undersides of his thighs, Alfred stiffened. And Ivan just pulled his legs further apart, settling in between them. Alfred hoped he’d get back to humping him. The thought sent another pulse between his legs.

“You’re hard,” Ivan observed. He rubbed his way between Alfred’s thighs, his eyes never straying from Alfred’s cock, twitching stiff against his abdomen. Alfred almost had the grace to shy away from that unrelenting gaze. Almost.

“You’re still wearing pants,” Alfred offered back. He wanted to sit up. Didn’t like this power imbalance, just sprawling on his back like he was. Then, Ivan touched a finger to his asshole, and Alfred tensed.

“That’s not right,” Ivan said, scolding. His finger brushed lightly, back and forth, over that puckered entrance. “You need to relax for me, or else, how will I ever get inside you? Fuck you, like you want so badly?”

Alfred swallowed. He propped himself up on his elbows to watch Ivan’s face. He almost wished he’d let him light that cigarette; the first time he’d see the Old Bear, it’d been through a swirling mist of smoke. Now here he was, spread out naked and aching before him.

“Mm? Are you sad I’m not getting on my knees to suck on your cock?” Ivan’s middle finger kept circling his hole, smearing lube. “With how excited you are, I don’t think you would last. And Alfred? You don’t get to cum before the boss does. Remember this.”

The tip of Ivan’s finger breached him. Alfred’s breath hitched, then stuttered out as he laid back down. Ivan stayed like that for a minute, just teasing his entrance, pulling back each time he nudged a little deeper. Alfred closed his eyes, willing his muscles to relax. And Ivan slid his finger in, then out, then in again, pushing deeper each time.

“You’re warm.” Ivan’s voice sounded gruff, so Alfred opened his eyes again, searching. Ivan’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes lidded with arousal. The bulge in his pants had only grown. “And you take one finger so well. Do you want more? I doubt you can even feel this, you’re so desperate for a nice, thick cock to fill you.”

“Yeah?” Alfred breathed a laugh. “Where are we gonna find one of those?”

Ivan smiled. A dangerous smile. This time, when he withdrew his finger, he pushed back in with two. Alfred gasped wetly as his asshole stretched around them. He wriggled his hips, as though it gave him some control of the situation, but Ivan simply shoved him back into the sheets. And once he was settled properly inside, he curled his fingers forward. A jolt of pleasure ran from Alfred’s ass, to his balls, all the way to the head of his cock. His back arched as Ivan hit that spot again. And again. A slow, persistent, thrum.

“Oh, but you definitely feel _that…_ ” Ivan chuckled. “You’re needy, aren’t you? You’ll be whining for me before I even get the head inside you.”

“Faster.” Alfred dug his heel into the sheets and spread his legs wide. His cock twitched again, aching to be touched. “Move them faster. And keep ‘em deep. I…I like them there.”

“Look at you, giving directions.”

A shadow swallowed Alfred before Ivan laid overtop of him. Their bodies moved together with every huff of breath. Alfred tangled his arms around Ivan’s neck to make sure he wouldn’t move away. Ivan responded by licking a hot stripe up the crook of Alfred’s neck.

“You don’t think I’ll leave you like this, do you? I’m not going anywhere until I get to take you, over and over. Until you beg for me.” Ivan pushed his fingers in deep. Alfred felt himself tighten around them and he groaned. “It’s time I straighten you out, Rat.”

 _Bullshit,_ Alfred wanted to say. _Bull_ shit _you can tame me._ But then Ivan was fucking him up and down on his fingers, filling him, making him groan each time he rocked into his prostate. Alfred couldn’t stop his body from clenching around him. Spasms of pleasure pulsed through him, winding him up tight, breaking his voice on shallow little sounds.

“There you go…” Ivan’s voice sounded hot in his ear. Alfred wiggled down on his hand, urging him deeper, even when it wasn’t possible. “You feel that? How a little flick of my fingers can get you moaning? Writhing underneath me?”

“Oh, fuck…” Alfred snatched up a fistful of Ivan’s hair. Their eyes met, flashing against one another, before Alfred dragged him into a kiss. And Ivan thrust his fingers in deeper, rougher, making Alfred groan against him. He could hear the slick sound Ivan’s fingers made as they pumped in and out, dripping with lube.

“Ivan—” Alfred tore their mouths apart, gasping at the teeth that appeared at his throat. Ivan sucked on his neck, sending prickles of sensation welling to the surface. It was an unspoken promise: _You like my scars so much, I’ll give you some marks of your own._ “Give it to me. Stop fucking teasing. Just— _Ah,_ shit—fuck me. It’ll feel good. Come on, come on. Fuck me.”

Ivan groaned against his throat. “You think you’re ready to take it? You think it’ll fit with how tight you are around my fingers?” He gave a little twist of his wrist that made Alfred tremble.

“ _Make_ me ready.” Alfred’s fingers curled into Ivan’s shoulder blades. “ _Make_ it fit.”

Ivan bit the turn of his jaw. “You _are_ needy, aren’t you?”

Slowly, Ivan withdrew his fingers, wiping them on Alfred’s stomach. Alfred almost snarled at him for that, but then Ivan was pushing his legs apart, and undoing his belt, and, _god,_ his cock was just as hard as it had been that night in the living room, when he was moaning and spilling pre-cum in Alfred’s mouth.

He lined up the head of his cock against Alfred’s entrance. Alfred could feel how thick it was, even without it pushing inside. Another splash of lubricant, and Ivan’s length slid slick between his ass cheeks, teasing that tight little hole. Then, he pushed forward, and Alfred felt his muscles stretching open around him.

“You take cock so well, don’t you? Like a perfect little whore.” Ivan’s voice was deep, rough. Alfred groaned as his ass tightened around the slenderer shaft just below the head of his cock. “That’s right… Slide down on it. Just like that… Open up for me, Alfred.”

It was dizzying. The stretch, the sweat, the slow grind of Ivan’s hips as he pushed into him, filling him up before withdrawing to the very tip of himself. Alfred felt his body struggle to accommodate. The lube sliding inside of him made it easier, and Ivan distributed it more carefully with every thorough thrust. Alfred relaxed his muscles best he could. They expanded around Ivan’s cock when he worked his way inside and squeezed tight whenever he started to pull out. A low groan escaped Alfred’s lips. He dissolved into that sound.

“Oh, you _like_ that… Look at me.” Ivan didn’t wait for Alfred to obey. He wrenched his jaw forward until their eyes met. Slowly, Ivan started pushing his cock in deeper, forcing Alfred’s walls to mold around him. Every inch of skin was another inch of pressure, of _pleasure_ , welling up inside him. His cock felt as full as his ass, drooling pre-cum down his stomach.

“ _Unh…_ ” Alfred bit back another whine. His muscles tried to clench but Ivan was too hard, too _thick_ , so Alfred stayed splayed open beneath him. His legs began to shake as Ivan pressed in to the hilt. “God… That’s…That’s a lot.”

“Does it hurt?” Ivan grumbled into his neck. The vibrations tickled. Alfred swallowed.

“A little.” He hooked his leg around Ivan’s waist, before he could retreat. “Don’t—Don’t stop, though. C’mon. Lemme show you how good I can take it.”

Ivan made a sound in his throat. He edged backwards, just a little bit, before rocking in again. He kept that rhythm, a gentle fucking that let Alfred get used to his size. A trickle of cold sweat raced down the back of his neck.

“God, I can feel your cock pulsing.” Alfred panted through his breaths, urging Ivan close with a heel in the small of his back. “You like it, don’t you? You fucking love this just as much as I do. You’ve been, god, _waiting_ to fuck me like this.”

“I don’t think so.” Ivan hooked an arm around Alfred’s shoulders, gathering him into half an embrace and effectively caging him. “I’ve been waiting to fuck you like _this._ ”

Ivan withdrew his cock almost entirely before grinding back in again. He kept moving like that, bouncing Alfred on his dick with long, full thrusts. Alfred cried out, his voice shredded by gasps and moans. And Ivan kept slamming up, deep, into that dizzying sweet spot.

“ _Oh._ Oh, god. That’s good.” Alfred raked his nails down Ivan’s back, earning him a hiss through clenched teeth. “Yeah, _yes,_ that’s so fucking good.”

“How badly did you want this?” Ivan’s breathing had also gone uneven. That fact stirred up Alfred’s arousal even more; he was making Ivan feel _good._ “How many times did you jerk yourself off to the thought of me having my way with you?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Alfred said, flushed. His dick rubbed up between Ivan’s torso and his own, throbbing with need. He wanted to touch himself, but he couldn’t— _He wasn’t supposed to cum yet._ He did his best to ride the steady pounding of Ivan’s cock. Their hips undulated together in a pleasured frenzy. “It—It was never this good. God, I couldn’t even…fucking imagine… A-Ah, _fuck,_ Ivan… You’ll make me c-cum better than I ever have alone.”

Bedsprings squeaked beneath them. The mattress rocked along with their bodies. Alfred parted his lips on a groan, and Ivan took the opportunity to push his tongue in deep, fucking his mouth with the same pace as his hips. It slid wet and hot over Alfred’s own tongue, the roof of his mouth. He was filled in every way and, god, it was gonna make him—

“God, oh god…” Alfred broke away, panting. He felt a pressure in his ass, drawing up tight behind his balls. His cock jerked once, twice, aching with desire. He needed to get off. He needed Ivan to thrust inside of him until he was squirting over them both. He needed—“Fuck me. Ivan, fuck me, fuck me, _please—_ ”

“You better not cum until I do first.” Ivan’s reminder came ragged. He must be close then, he _must_ be, because, god, Alfred couldn’t take much more of this. The head of his cock was starting to swell, and every time Ivan hit that _spot…_

“I can’t…” Alfred groaned. He looked down, watching as his cock began to jump and twitch between them. Liquid pleasure pooled at the tip of him, leaking down that little pink crease. “Oh no, oh god…” His ass squeezed tight around Ivan’s cock, again and again, spasms rocking through him until—“It’s gonna come out. Fuck. _Fuck._ ”

Ivan’s breath hitched. Shuddered. Then, his hips started jerking unevenly, until he was buckling down over Alfred, groaning in his ear and—cumming. Ivan was cumming, spilling inside of him, and that meant—

“Oh my— _God…_ ” Alfred reached between them, rubbing his cock until streaks of hot cum gushed across his knuckles, his hips. He gasped Ivan’s name as his muscles tensed, clenching around him. Every time they did, another ripple of pleasure ran through his cock, until he was moaning and panting and cumming dry.

An explosion sounded outside.

Their breaths filled the silence that followed. There was the faint creaking of bedsprings as both of them settled. Alfred dropped his head into the pillows, absently stroking Ivan’s hair. His head still spun.

“Look,” Ivan said, softly.

Alfred vaguely followed his finger to a spray of color igniting the night sky. Fireworks lit up the ivory curtains in swaths of red, white, and blue. They painted the lenses of Alfred’s glasses with each resounding boom. Alfred smiled through his pleasured high.

“Happy birthday, Fredka.”

Alfred laughed, couldn’t help it. But when Ivan looked at him, instead of explaining what he found funny— _How can someone who fucks so hard be so heartwarmingly sweet?_ —he just kissed Ivan’s head, because he _could_ , and turned his face to the window. The Fourth of July fireworks showered them in a technicolor glow.

He wondered if his next birthday would even begin to compare.


	16. Rat

Alfred woke up with a gun in his face.

Vague remnants of a sweet dream tickled his memory. He recalled cold hands, not unpleasant, touching him all over. There was the silken whisper of bedsheets on bare skin. Lazy curls of grey smoke caressed his senses. Wherever his subconscious had taken him, Alfred decided he liked it. Maybe it was paradise. Golden warmth kissed his eyelashes when he blinked them open. He was smiling, adrift in the rosy bliss that followed him into reality.

All of it shattered as he stared down the pitch-black barrel of Ivan’s revolver.

“Hey, whoa, what the fuck is going—?” Alfred tried to sit up. A rough hand on his shoulder shoved him back down.

“How much did you tell them?”

Alfred blinked, trying to determine if what he was seeing was real or some sort of blurred illusion because, fuck, he wasn’t wearing his glasses. Even without them, though, the scene was obvious: Ivan was straddling him, his shirt buttoned haphazardly, as though he’d started somewhere in the middle and then gave up. His scarf hung off his shoulders, untied, and even that little bit of clothing had Alfred feeling exposed, vulnerable in his nudity. The sheets were tangled around his waist, suddenly very much like bondage instead of comfort. His heart slammed hard into his throat. He choked on it when he tried to talk.

“Ivan,” he said carefully. “I don’t know…what you’re talking about.”

Ivan thrust the gun forward, until cold metal cut into Alfred’s forehead. He yelped. The gun _clicked_ under Ivan’s thumb. “You have two seconds to speak. One—”

“ _Wait._ ” Alfred winced at the hoarse desperation in his own voice. His hands flew up in surrender. “Ivan, dude, wait. Tell me what’s going on. What _happened?_ ”

Ivan’s teeth peeked from the corner of his mouth in a snarl. It took Alfred a second to notice, but his hand was shaking where it held the gun. A thin trickle of courage allowed Alfred to reach up and slowly push the muzzle away from his face.

“ _Ivan._ ” He was pleading now.

With a sharp hiss and an exasperated “ _Shit,_ ” Ivan tore the gun away. Alfred felt himself breathe again.

“That’s good. Okay.” Alfred tilted his head against his pillow in relief. “Now… You wanna tell me what’s going on? Talk to me, Vanya—”

“ _Do not_ —” The gun reappeared at his skull. “—call me this right now. Not right now.”

“ _Okay!_ Ivan, okay. I’m sorry. Not right now.”

Ivan’s breath shuddered as he lifted himself from the bed. The revolver clattered to the floor. Alfred watched it fall. Then, his eyes flicked to Ivan, who continued getting dressed without looking at him. A cracked cellphone laid against the wall.

“You were the only one around when I was discussing it.” Ivan finished buttoning his shirt, then slipped into his coat, one arm at a time. “Now five of my best men are dead, another two in police custody.” A rasp of leather as he pulled on his gloves. “So, will you please, tell me how much you told them, and _why_.”

“Wait, what are… I’m sorry. You’re not gonna believe me, but I seriously have no idea—” Alfred sat up, slowly. His tongue worked around a dry mouth. “When you were discussing what? When did this conversation happen? Seriously, please, level with me here. When?”

Ivan shot a foul look over his shoulder. It only lasted a second, as though he couldn’t stand looking at him. Alfred’s heart panged. “That night. In the bar. We played pool, yes? Not long before that, I got a phone call. You remember this? I was confirming the details of a very delicate, and _important_ , operation that had been months in the making. A time and a place. That was all I said. And it was all you needed to betray me.”

“What?” Alfred scrambled to the edge of the bed, shaking his head. “No. No, no. Ivan, you can’t seriously think—I mean, you were talking about this stuff on the _phone?_ It sounds like that was your first mistake.”

“It was a secure line,” Ivan snarled, turning on him. His eyes darkened. “I can trust the technology. What I was foolish to trust was the company around me.”

“Ivan…” Alfred licked his lips. They were dry, so dry, and his thoughts were muddled. “Alright, so you had a phone call. That night, in the bar. Your nightclub.” He fumbled over the vague images in his memory. But, yes, that was right, he _did_ remember a phone call. Except—“But, you excused yourself. You walked away and the only thing I heard you say was hello, only—No. You didn’t say that. You were speaking Russian and—Ivan, I don’t even _know_ Russian.”

“So you say.”

“No, no. Seriously, dude, I-I only know, like, basic Spanish. I don’t speak Russian, but…” Alfred pressed his palms against his eyes. A red buzzing had started up in his head. It made it difficult to piece his thoughts together, but he was sure of one thing: He _didn’t_ know Russian. He didn’t. But…

But he knew someone who did.

Someone who’d been at the bar that very same night.

“You recorded me, then.” Ivan’s voice sounded from faraway. “I do not know the hows and whys of your betrayal. This is why I ask you. I am still waiting for an answer of substance.”

“No…” Alfred stared at the wall, unable to manage more than a whisper. “No, no way…”

_Do you have any idea what I heard him_ saying _over there?_

Alfred hadn’t understood, at first, why someone going into the medical profession would choose to learn Russian, of all languages. But, with New York City boasting one of the largest Russian-speaking populations in the United States, he supposed it made sense—Especially when the person in question already knew French and Spanish. Russian was the next logical option.

_I know you don’t speak Russian, love, but I’ve studied the language well enough to recognize_ evil _when I hear it._

“Arthur…” Alfred growled the name under his breath. If Arthur had heard Ivan talking about _whatever_ …what came after that? Who would he have told? It wasn’t like Arthur was running his mouth to the Italians—Why would he?—but _something_ was going on, and Alfred resolved to figure out exactly _what._

“What are you saying?”

“Nothing. I gotta—figure this out.” Alfred grappled blindly for his glasses. Then, once they were on, he started shimmying into old clothes. “What time does our flight take off?”

“Alfred.”

If Arthur was running his mouth to _anyone,_ he could be a danger. And any danger to the mob was a danger to Arthur himself. Alfred needed to knock him out of this. He had to—fuck—find his other shoe and fly back to Arthur to make sure this didn’t happen again. Alfred swore when his arm got stuck in his sleeve. He hopped a few times to get both feet through his pantlegs and whirled around to search for his jacket. He only paused when a gloved hand tightened on his shoulder. Alfred looked up into smoldering violet eyes. All the tenderness of the previous night had gone. Now, Ivan looked cold as ever.

“Sort this out.”

Alfred’s eyes widened as he looked between either of Ivan’s. He almost stood down. Then, he squared his shoulders against him instead. “Yeah. I’m on it. I just gotta wait until our flight—”

“No waiting.” Ivan’s fingers crushed into Alfred’s bone. An ache spread from his right shoulder all the way through to the left. “You go to the airport, you tell them I sent you, you get on the next plane back to Manhattan, and you _sort this out._ ”

As soon as Alfred was released, he stumbled forward to grab his suitcase. He stuffed whatever loose belongings he could see into the front pouch and hoped Ivan would grab anything he left behind. _Like the lube,_ he remembered for some reason, not that it mattered anymore. He was almost through the exit, thoughts racing, when Ivan’s voice caught him.

“Alfred.” A spiral of smoke drifted through the balcony doors. Ivan’s silhouette blocked the sunlight streaming in, casting the hotel room into shadow. He took another drag, letting the embers glow between his lips, before he spoke again. “You better get this one right the first time. You do not want me taking it into my hands.”

Right.

With one last _throb_ of his heart, Alfred slipped through the front door. He was back to doing what he’d set out to do from the beginning: Trying to protect his family. Only now, he had two families to deal with. He only hoped he wouldn’t have to make a habit of protecting them from each other.

*

It was dark by the time Alfred arrived in Manhattan. He felt like he’d worn the same clothes for too long. Sweat made his hair itch, and grease built up in the crease of his nose. He was tired, sore from a full day of travel, but something about Francis’s front door relit the fire in his blood. Arthur was in there. And Arthur had to be spoken to.

“Francis! You home? It’s Alfred!” He knocked more gently than he wanted to. His other hand clenched around the handle of his luggage. “Hello?” He perked on his toes to stare futilely through an empty peephole. He punched the doorbell a few times for good measure. “Yo, Frank! Open up, man.”

Just as Alfred was about to match the pounding of his fist to the pounding in his head, the door cracked open. A chain kept it from straying too wide.

“ _Mon dieu!_ What is the cause of this racket at such a late hour?” A bearded face appeared in the sliver between the door and its frame. Then, Francis’s eyes went wide. “Alfred? You are here?”

Alfred shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and smiled. “Hey, you. Can I come in?”

There was a long pause. Alfred could read the scrutiny in Francis’s eyes. They took in his rumpled shirt, examined his suitcase, his demeanor. Alfred maintained a friendly expression through it all. At last, Francis cursed under his breath and shut the door. Alfred heard the scrape of a lock. Then, Francis was standing fully before him in a too-short robe. His arms folded across a bare chest.

“Had a bad one-night stand?” Francis looked him over more carefully before sighing and motioning for him to come in. He turned and spoke over his shoulder while Alfred stepped inside and closed the door. “Or are you here to fight your ex-lover? Because I can help with either one. I just need to know what’s expected of me.”

“If you could get him for me, that’d be great.” Alfred hooked a thumb through his beltloop while his other hand trailed absently over a shelf full of little French trinkets. He spared Francis a glance and a smile before adding, “Thanks.”

Another sigh as Francis rummaged through his wine rack. “It’s a small apartment, darling. I think he’s heard you.” There was the sound of a cork popping and a glass filling. “He’ll be right out, I’m sure, as soon as he’s decent.”

“Decent?” Alfred’s smile sloped sideways. He watched as the other man settled into a well-cushioned window seat, sipping a deep purple drink.

“Well, dressed,” Francis amended.

“Don’t tell me you still haven’t kicked that brute out of your home. Does he know what time it is?”

A new voice rounded the corner. Alfred’s fingers drifted away from the shelved knickknacks. His head snapped around to face the hall.

Francis finished his drink. “Speak of the devil and he will appear.”

Appear, Arthur did. He leaned in the doorway, wearing pajama pants that weren’t his, and a leather jacket shrugged haphazardly across his shoulders, with nothing underneath. Something he threw on in a hurry. His disheveled hair confirmed Alfred’s suspicion that he was interrupting something. _Good,_ he thought, and smiled brighter.

“Hey, buddy. Just stoppin’ by to see what’s up. What’s going on?” Alfred thumbed the side of his nose. His attention flicked between Arthur’s dull green eyes. He took a few casual steps forward, swinging his arms while he moved. “Actually, I had something I wanted to talk to you about. You mind taking a walk with me?”

“Here’s as good a place to talk as any. And what have you got?” That second question went to Francis, as Arthur walked over, snatched up his bottle of wine, and took a sniff. “I thought we were done buying this rubbish. You hate it even more than I do.”

“I need something to drink during unsavory situations.” Francis plucked the bottle back from his hands. “I can’t start associating all my fine vintage with heartbreak and hostility, can I?”

“What else would you drink over?” Arthur scoffed, but his eyes held a humor Alfred had not seen in a while. That light died as soon as Arthur focused back on him. “Go on, then.”

Alfred laughed, once. “You uh…” He gestured around. “You really want to talk about this here?”

“Talk about _what,_ Alfred?” Arthur sounded exasperated more than angry. He rolled his head on his neck, working the tension from his shoulders. “It’s midnight, I’m half naked, and I’d like to get back to _bed._ ” The emphasis on that final word, as well as Arthur’s quick glance to Francis, let Alfred know it carried other meanings. Francis crossed one leg over the other and poured himself a fresh drink.

“You could call ahead next time,” Francis suggested, not unkindly. “So that you can have a proper host.”

“Yeah, I…” Alfred shook his head. He couldn’t tear his eyes from Arthur, who was treating him like a minor inconvenience instead of what he really was: A hero trying to save his goddamn life from things Arthur couldn’t begin to understand. He breathed another unenthusiastic laugh. “Uh.”

“You’ve come all this way, and still haven’t worked out exactly what you wanted to say. That right?” Arthur sighed, kneading his palms into the backs of his eyes. He still didn’t sound angry, and for some reason, that made Alfred angrier. “Pour me one too, Francis. It’ll be awhile until those gears start working.”

“I woke up with a gun in my face this morning.” The words rushed from Alfred’s lips, still crooked into an ironic half-grin. He threw his arms out at his sides before letting them slap against his thighs. “Yeah. Yeah. I was almost shot in the face. This morning. So. I’m here now.”

Arthur blinked, slowly. A thin crease appeared between his brows. It might have been concern, but Alfred dismissed that thought outright. Arthur couldn’t care for him anymore.

“That so,” Arthur said, after a too-long pause. “Well.”

Francis drained his cup again.

“Yeah. That’s so.” Alfred took a breath, stepping closer. Arthur only settled more comfortably against the wall. And _damn him_ for that. “But I had it easy. Right? Because, unlike five other people in our…business, _I_ actually lived to walk away from the damn thing. Five of my coworkers are dead, Art. They died, because someone leaked _private information_ to a rival company, and now they’re fucking dead. And I could’ve died too.”

Arthur didn’t respond right away. Without looking, he reached out to Francis, who handed him a drink of his own. Then, Arthur took the wine bottle and filled his glass the rest of the way, to the brim. Only then did he drink.

Francis was the one who broke the silence with a low whistle. “Things are getting very tense in the restaurant industry.”

“You know what I’m talking about,” Alfred said to Arthur. “You knew what Ivan was talking about too, when he was speaking _in Russian_ to these associates of ours. You remember that, Art? On the phone. You said _I_ didn’t speak Russian, but _you’ve_ studied the language long enough to recognize—”

“—to recognize evil when I hear it. Yes. I recall.” Arthur went quiet again. He sipped his drink, thoughtful, and didn’t say anything else.

“Okay?” Alfred stepped closer as another raw laugh climbed his throat. “So… You get what’s happening, right? You were running your mouth about things you don’t fucking understand, and it put me and everyone I work with in danger. But whatever. Okay. It happened. So, my thing now is, who did you tell? Why were you talking about it?”

Arthur tapped a steady line down the stem of his wine glass. The slow _clink, clink, clink_ made Alfred want to shatter it against the wall. Arthur spoke before he could. “Who would I tell? I’m not involved in any of this. I made this abundantly clear multiple times, even going so far as to remove myself from my _home_ to be away from it all.”

“So, you’re telling me you didn’t rant about all the ‘crazy Russian mob shit’ you heard? Didn’t yell through the streets about how I’m being ‘brainwashed by criminals’ or anything like that?” Alfred zeroed his attention in on Arthur, so when he hesitated, even the tiniest bit, Alfred saw.

“Well,” he said, slowly. “Not to anyone who matters.”

“You shouldn’t have been eavesdropping at all!” Alfred threw his hands up, laughing a strained laugh. “It’s not like you’re explaining the plot of a movie here, okay? This is my _life._ And it almost fucking ended this morning! Hell, it _still_ might if I can’t manage to ‘sort this out.’” Alfred’s tone dropped. “That means, sort _you_ out.”

“Now, don’t go getting the idea that this is _my_ fault.” Arthur shoved off the wall to stand straight in front of Alfred. A faint red flush colored his cheeks, but Alfred couldn’t be tricked into believing it was a product of the anger he’d been chasing. Arthur was fumbling too much. “I only discussed this in private with one other person and that was—Well.” Arthur rounded on Francis. “Who have _you_ been running your mouth to, frog?”

“ _Me?_ ” Francis put a hand over his heart. “Why do you turn the blame on an innocent bystander such as myself?”

“You’re the only one I relayed this information to, seeing as you were _begging_ to know why Alfred and I have been having such extraordinary issues that—Let’s face it—go far beyond the scope of your typical lover’s spat.” Arthur clicked his tongue, he was fussing now, and turned his full attention away from Alfred. But Alfred didn’t stop watching him. “Fess up now. Clearly this is bigger than either of us could have predicted. Let’s sort out the issue best we can, since that’s apparently worlds easier for Alfred than simply _leaving_ the gang of brutes putting pressure on his life.”

“I can’t just leave,” Alfred mumbled, not knowing or caring if it was true. “Unless they kill me. Which they might, if I don’t fucking figure out—”

“ _Who_ did you talk to, Francis?” Arthur swatted the other man’s shoulder, sloshing some wine onto his leg.

Francis scowled, shooing him away. “I’ve told you already, I am innocent. Take responsibility for your own loud mouth!”

“I don’t believe for an instant that you weren’t gossiping about this all over the state of New York. Spill it.”

“I would never do something so reckless that it could harm my dear, sweet brother Alfred.”

“You _toad—_ ”

“ _Knock it off._ ” Alfred punched the wall, and dry plaster collapsed around his knuckles. Arthur and Francis went silent. “You’re killing me. Every fucking second that you hold out information on this, you’re _killing_ me. Do you not get that? If I go back to my boss without some assurance that the situation is handled and it won’t happen again, I’m _dead._ And I know you don’t give a shit if that happens at this point. Hell, you probably think I deserve it. But you realize your lives could be at stake too, right? I’m trying to _protect_ you, so stop being so goddamn difficult!”

Alfred stood, panting, with his fists at his sides. His right hand throbbed, covered in white dust. At least it wasn’t blood, he thought. Not yet.

“…You are not our hero in this,” Arthur began. His voice trembled with quiet, restrained anger. “All of this, Alfred, is your fault. You refused to recognize the danger implicit in your work. You should have known what you were getting into. Neither Francis nor myself have betrayed any sort of—”

“I may have mentioned it to someone.”

Both Arthur’s attention and Alfred’s snapped to Francis. Alfred’s nails dug into his palm. All he managed was a laugh. It fell on Arthur to demand elaboration.

“What the hell are you talking about, you mentioned it to someone?” Arthur said. “I spoke to you in confidence. This was not a conversation to Tweet about.”

“No, no, of course not.” Francis finished his drink. Slowly, he went on. “I was simply blown away by all the details. I’ve never heard of a breakup so messy, like something out of a soap opera.” He tried to take another sip, remembered his glass was empty, and held it to his chest instead. “It was just two of my closest friends. I had their word that they wouldn’t spread any rumors, and their word is good for me. They—”

“ _Who?_ ” Alfred’s voice rode low, like thunder.

Francis frowned and began to pour himself another drink. His fingers shook around the bottle, just a little bit. “Gilbert and Antonio. Dreadful men, sure, but good friends to me.”

Alfred’s breath escaped him. He felt the blood rush from his face, leaving him lightheaded. _Antonio._ Was it…? Could it be—“The same Antonio that hangs out with Lovino Vargas? Are you talking about _that_ Antonio?”

“That…depends. Why do you ask?” Carefully, Francis set aside his glass and started to stand. “Alfred, _mon chéri,_ you look pale. You should sit. Let’s discuss this over wine, hm? I can crack open something nice and strong. Do you prefer red or white?”

“Fucking Antonio…” Alfred swayed before catching himself on the back of a chair. “If you told Antonio, and he told Lovino… Fuck. _Fuck._ Goddammit.” He shoved off the furniture and began pacing. His hands raked through his hair over and over again. “What _exactly_ did you tell him? Word for word. I want a fucking _script_ written for me right now. Jesus Christ.”

“I-I don’t know. It was drunken gossip. How am I to recall—”

“It wasn’t gossip, it was people’s lives!” Alfred’s laughter pitched high and wild. “I need to know what was said so I can make sure _your_ lives aren’t next, so if you could just fucking cooperate—”

“There was a looting,” Arthur interrupted. “From my understanding, it involved some warehouse just outside of the Bronx.” He lowered his head and his voice. “I don’t know what was there, I don’t know who was involved. All I know is, I thought it was idiotic that your lovely boss was planning a raid for five in the afternoon in the middle of summer. The sun is still out, people could be watching. If you ask me what I think, their getting caught had nothing to do with us. They were the ones acting reckless.”

“I _didn’t_ ask you what you think,” Alfred snapped. A jagged smile cut across his face, and Arthur shut up. “I don’t know the details either, obviously. I’m sure our guys were undercover. I’m sure it was well thought out. I’m sure things would have gone just fine if we didn’t have a fucking informant blabbing to the other side!”

“ _What_ are you talking about?”

“Antonio works for the Italians! The Italians—Never mind. I can’t talk about this shit to you.” Alfred grabbed his suitcase, headed for the front door, then thought better of it and turned around. “You two have _got_ to shut the fuck up. Understand? I’m gonna do my best to protect you right now, but if you keep sticking your nose in shit—”

“You mean if _you_ keep involving yourself in nonsense that we’re then _forced_ to follow to make sure you’re alright.” Arthur grabbed Alfred by the shoulders, shaking him. “Alfred, I will chase you down through all the heists and gunfights in New York if it means keeping you safe. Why can’t you drop this madness and come home before any one of us gets hurt? Or _worse?_ ”

“You—” Alfred laughed openly. “Didn’t I already _talk_ to you about this? _Twice?_ ” He used the strength of both arms to shove Arthur away from him. “You’re putting yourself in danger by sniffing around other people’s business and _shouting_ it to the fucking sky. I’m not accepting fault for that. You need to rethink some of your priorities right now, dude, because they’re gonna end you up in a ditch somewhere, guaranteed.” 

“ _You’re_ putting us in danger by connecting us to any of this horse shit in the first place.” Arthur’s eyes blazed, like emeralds melting over flame. “You cannot be talking to me about priorities, when—”

“Listen. To what I’m saying to you.” Alfred set his jaw and went on slowly, so nothing would be misconstrued. “They call me Rat, back at the restaurant. You know that? But right now, Art? I’m not the _rat_ we need to worry about.” A pause. “…Do you get it? I am doing something to protect you. I’m getting to you before my boss does. I’m not giving you away to him, and I’m _warning_ you.”

“Fat lot of good that does.” Arthur’s teeth showed in a sneer. But Alfred could see his resolve slipping. There was more going on here than Arthur knew, and he was smart enough to recognize it. Still, he kept pushing. “Protecting us from problems we wouldn’t have if it weren’t for your chaotic lust.”

“I am protecting you,” Alfred reiterated. He stepped up close, until his chest touched Arthur’s on each rough inhale. His voice dropped to just above a growl as he stared down at the smaller man. “Because next time?” Another pause as Alfred’s jaw tightened, and his tone turned grave. “Arthur, next time, I might have to _do_ something about you.”

Alfred stood still. He allowed the full implication of his words to settle down around them. The sound of another wineglass filling served as the only backdrop to their shallow breaths.

“Would you?” Arthur asked, quietly. “If he gave you the order, would you see to it that I couldn’t sabotage your operations anymore, by running my loud…fucking…mouth?”

Alfred’s eyes flicked between Arthur’s own. He licked his lips before speaking. “I don’t know what I’d do,” he said, too honestly. “Don’t make me make that choice.”

Slow realization dawned on Arthur. His face blanched and his eyes went wide. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

Alfred turned, then. His hands shook as he adjusted the luggage in his grip. He wondered if the situation might change someday. If a time might come when he was standing in front of Arthur with something else in his hand. Something cold, and steel, and deadly.

“You’d kill me if he told you to.”

Alfred stopped with his hand on the front doorknob. He didn’t remember crossing the apartment to get there, and he didn’t remember Arthur following him. Still, Arthur’s voice sounded clearly from behind. Warm night air ruffled his hair as he pulled open the door. His trigger finger twitched.

“Let’s hope we never have to find out,” Alfred said, and left them.


End file.
